


Fugitives

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Character Death, Drugs, Gang Violence, Gangs, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mac and Cheese, Oregano - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Weed, but also i hate him, but also theres fluff and chaos dw, davey IS HORRIFYING AND I LOVE HIM, dumbass racetrack higgins, hehe, jack is well jack, just yeah this is intense, oregano trying to be weed, pretty graphic deaths, rip el sorry bro, romeoooo is there, this isnt a cake walk, yeehaw, yyyyeeeeehaawwww
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18414557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Gang wars, gunshots, and regrets.And Albert should really learn to mind his damn business.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so I posted this a while back, but never updated it and ended up deleting this. I've been writing it on my tumblr, but I'm bringing it back heeere now that there's more written! Also, the first few chapters were written wayyyyy back a few months ago, so my writing definitely improves as the chapters progress, so yeehaw.
> 
> TW: none for this chapter

Albert pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he walked along the sidewalk in the bitter, New York Winter air. He could see his breath puffing in front of him, swirling with the snow that was falling steadily. Albert really hated Winter. He always had- often complaining that he’d much rather take off layers than put them on. Besides, no matter how many jackets you pile yourself in, there’s always a part of you that’s still freezing. In Summer, you can just hop in a pool and you’re golden for a few hours.   
He rounded a corner, speeding up his pace slightly as he made his way back to his apartment building. The wind started to pick up faster, blowing harsh flurries of snow into his eyes. Albert bowed his head against the air as it nipped at him, mentally counting down the street numbers that lead to his.   
Seemingly out of nowhere, a guy barreled into Albert, effectively knocking him to the ground “Shit, sorry!” the guy exclaimed. He bent down and hoisted Albert up, holding his shoulders briefly to steady him, then continued to half-walk, half-jog down the street. Albert blinked a few times, trying to process what had just happened. Distantly, he became aware that his head was suddenly much colder now than it had been a moment ago, only to realize that his hat hat fallen off when he fell. He reached down to pick it up and discovered a wallet lying next to it. He flipped it open, looking for an ID. A driver’s license was tucked into one of the plastic sleeves and Albert recognized the person in the photo as the guy who had just crashed into him. Squinting, he read the name on the license, then turned on his heel and began retracing his steps in hope of finding the guy.   
It didn’t take long to spot the guy’s head of blonde hair weaving in and out of passerbyers. Albert picked up his pace to match his jog and eventually was in an arm’s length of the guy. He stretched out his hand and placed it on the guy’s shoulder, causing him to jump and raise his arms above his head in defense.  
“Whoa, chill,” Albert said, raising his hands in surrender, “You just dropped your wallet, I was giving it back.”  
The guy straightened up, eyes wide and frantic, “Oh, uh, thanks.”  
Albert handed him the wallet, “Here ya go, Antonio.”  
Antonio let out a noise of distress and pulled Albert out of the mob of people walking along the sidewalk, “How do you know my name? Did you recognize me from somewhere? Did someone tell you?” He hissed.  
Albert’s eyes flew to his hairline, “Uhhh, none of the above? I just read it on your license.”  
Antonio visibly relaxed, “Oh, good, okay. But it’s not Antonio. If anyone asks, it’s Race.”  
“Race?” Albert asked, “What kinda name is that?”  
Race bit his lip, eyes darting to the side rapidly. It looked like he was watching out for someone, “It’s short for Racetrack.”  
Albert furrowed his brow, “That just made it weirder.”  
Race sighed, clearly frustrated, “It was a childhood nickname, okay? Now pretend you never knew my real name. I gotta go.” He began to turn away, but Albert grabbed his arm.  
“Dude, what the hell is wrong with you? Who’s after you?” Albert demanded.  
Race’s eyes darkened, “None of your business,” He jerked his arm out of Albert’s grasp, “Besides, why would you wanna associate yourself with someone who is clearly on the run?”  
Albert opened and closed his mouth a few times, “I, uh, don’t know, but you look like you need help.”  
“I could’ve killed someone.”  
“But did you?”  
“I don’t know, did I?”  
“What the hell.”  
“See? I could be dangerous.”  
“That’s edgy.”  
“Jesus fuck, I don’t know why I’m still talking to you,” Race scrubbed a hand down his face in frustration, “I really gotta go, okay?”  
“Okay, fine. But-” Albert was cut off by Race cursing and grabbing his arm. He began to run, still holding onto Albert as they dodged pedestrians.  
“What the fuck?”  
“They caught up, oh god.”  
Albert glanced over his shoulder. Through the sea of people still bustling about, he could see several police officers prowling. It looked like they hadn’t spotted Race yet, but they were alarmingly close. Fear bubbled in Albert’s stomach. What the hell had he gotten himself into?  
“So you’re running from the police?” Albert hissed to Race.  
Race grunted, “He connects the dots.”  
“Why?”  
“I’ve already told you, it’s none of your business.”   
“Why did you drag me with you?” Albert asked, pulling his arm out of Race’s hold and falling into step next to him.  
“You seem like the type to run your mouth,” Race said, clearly distracted, “Couldn’t risk it.” He stopped abruptly and looked around, then turned to Albert, hopeless.  
“Where would be a good place to hide?” He asked.  
“Uh, I know a place? Jacobi’s? It’s like a hole in the wall restaurant. Nobody ever goes.”  
“Perfect, is it close to here?” Race said.  
Albert glanced at the nearest street sign, “A couple of blocks, yeah.”  
“Take me.”  
“Okay, under one condition.” Albert declared.  
Race rolled his eyes, “I don’t have any money, man, please.”  
Albert shook his head, “Not money. An explanation.”  
Race pursed his lips, eyes flicking over Albert’s shoulder, “Fine. Lead the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug mentions, implied vomiting, gang mentions

Albert and Race entered Jacobi’s about twenty minutes later, both slightly out of breath from rushing there. The had lost track of the police after a few blocks, but were still wary as they continued along the busy streets. As Albert had predicted, there were only a couple other patrons milling about inside. Jacobi, the manager and head cook of the establishment, waved to Albert as he walked in, who in turn waved back with a smile. Race pulled his hood up, pointedly keeping his head bowed as they took a seat in the booth furthest to the back of the restaurant.  
“You do realize that makes you look even more suspicious, right?” Albert said, taking a menu out of its holder and scanning the options.  
Race took a menu as well, “Yeah, but I can’t have anyone recognize me.”  
“I understand that,” Albert said, “But having your hood up basically screams criminal.”  
Race snorted, “You seem oddly at peace with the fact that you’re having lunch with someone who quite literally dragged you along with him as he ran from fucking police officers.”  
Albert shrugged, “You’re intriguing and my life’s boring. You seemed like a good opportunity for some excitement.”  
Race looked up from his menu and searched Albert’s eyes before saying, “I don’t understand you.”  
Albert smirked, “I could say the same about you.”  
They broke eye contact when Jacobi came over to give them glasses of water and take their orders. Race ordered a Reuben with a side of fries and Albert settled for a pastrami sandwich. Albert stacked their menus and put them back, then pulled his water glass towards him and fiddled with the straw.  
“So,” He said, surveying Race who had since taken down his hood, “That explanation you owe me.”  
Race’s eyes darted to the side slightly, something Albert observed he did a lot, “First off, I don’t owe you anything. You chose to question me,” Race picked up his straw wrapper, crumpling it between his fingers. He was nervous, “But, if you must know, I got caught with some heroine on me,” by the tone of his voice, Albert could tell there was more to the story. He waited for Race to continue, but the other man remained silent.  
“So...you’re a druggie?” Albert asked slowly.  
Race shook his head, “No. The heroine’s not mine, nor is it for me directly.”  
“Oh,” Albert said, “Who’s it for then?”  
Race flicked the straw wrapper at Albert, who dodged it, “You ask a lot of questions,” he stated, “Is seriously none of this putting you off?”  
Albert raised a shoulder, “I mean, it is. But like I said- you’re intriguing.”  
Jacobi came back with their food and the two boys dug in. Race devoured his sandwich before Albert could finish even half of his own.  
“I take it you were hungry?” Albert asked, popping a fry in his mouth.  
Race drank some of his water, then took a bite of his pickle, “I don’t always have time to eat.”  
Albert knit his eyebrows together, “Why?”  
Race groaned and put his head in his hands, “Dude, oh my god.”  
“Fine, okay,” Albert said, resignation in his voice, “I’ll stop asking questions.”  
“Thank you,” Race breathed, “God, today’s been weird.”  
“You can say that again,” Albert waved Jacobi over and asked for the check, which the older man brought back a moment later, “I take it I’m paying?”  
Race grimaced, “Uh, could you? I’m sorry. I was serious earlier when I said I don’t have money right now.”  
Albert reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, placing his credit card on top of the bill, “No problem.”  
Jacobi took the credit card and went to put the transaction through. When he brought it back, Albert took it, then got up, Race following suit.  
“Okay well, this has been interesting for a multitude of reasons,” Albert said, slipping his gloves back on his hands, “But I’m guessing we’re done-”  
“I don’t know your name,” Race blurted out suddenly, “I just realized that you literally bought me lunch and I don’t know your name.”  
Albert frowned, “Oh, well, can I trust you to know it?”  
Race considered this, “No, but you know mine.”  
“That’s unsettling,” Albert deadpanned, “But ya know what? Fuck it. My name’s Albert.”  
“Albert what?”  
“Uhh,” Albert shifted from foot to foot, “I only know your first name, so you only get to know mine.”  
Race’s eye twitched slightly, but he didn’t push. They walked towards the exit and paused once they got outside, standing awkwardly for a moment, then Race extended his hand, which Albert shook.  
“Thank you for hiding me for a bit,” Race said, “And for lunch.”  
“You gonna be okay?” Albert asked, letting go of Race’s hand.  
Race shrugged, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Bye, Albert.”  
“Bye, Race,” Race offered him a half-smile, then pulled up his hood again and began to walk away briskly, leaving Albert alone in front of Jacobi’s wondering what the hell just happened.  
XXX  
Albert sat alone in his apartment, eating some leftover pizza he had found in the fridge. His roommate, Elmer, was at his girlfriend’s place for the night, giving Albert some time to himself. He pulled up Netflix and sorted through his recommended list, looking for a new TV series to binge. When he found nothing, he impulsively searched for Phineas and Ferb and clicked on the first episode. The apartment was his for the night? Why not indulge himself a little?  
He dipped his cold pizza in some ranch- a tradition he’d had for as long as he could remember- and took a satisfied bite as the theme song for Phineas and Ferb played. He was just getting comfortable when he heard rapid knocking at his apartment door. He allowed himself a moment to be annoyed that someone interrupting his alone time, then paused the show and went to answer the door, pizza still in hand.  
He opened the door expecting to see Elmer on the other side, claiming he forgot something. But when he saw the person in front of him, he quickly found he was wrong.  
“What the fuck,” He said, taking a step back, “How’d you find my place?”  
Race was standing in front of him, looking a little more than worse for wear. His jacket was gone and there were several visible rips on his shirt. He had a black eye and cuts were littered across his arms and face. He was looking at the ground and Albert could see some dried vomit surrounding his mouth.  
“Uh, I have sources,” Race mumbled, “Can I please come in?”  
Albert was speechless for a moment, “What the fuck,” He repeated.  
Race met his gaze for the first time since he’d arrived, “Please? I literally have nowhere else I can go. I swear I’ll be out of your hair after this. I just need to use your first aid kit.”  
Albert shook his head and began to close the door, but Race held out a hand to stop him, “You inserted yourself into my life,” Race whispered, frantically, “You insisted to know who I am and why I’m running. You owe me this.”  
Albert couldn’t argue with that, so he opened the door wider and stood back to let Race in, “Thank you,” Race said, pushing past Albert, “Uh, where’s your bathroom?”  
“Down the hall, first door on your left,” Albert said, gesturing in that direction, “Go ahead and wash up, I’ll go grab the first aid kit.”  
Race nodded and walked towards the bathroom. Albert remained in the entrance hallway for a moment, still stunned. He forced himself to go to his kitchen and placed his pizza on a paper towel before retrieving the first aid kit from the top of the fridge. Then he took an ice pack out of the freezer. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door open and Race entered the kitchen.  
“Let’s go to the living room,” Albert said, leading them out of the kitchen, “Go ahead and sit down.”  
Race sat wordlessly on the couch and Albert sat facing him on the coffee table. His face, while still bruised, was less bloody than it had been when he first entered and the vomit that had been there previously was gone.   
Race huffed out a choked laugh when he looked at the TV, “Are you watching Phineas and Ferb?”  
“Shut up, it’s a good show,” Albert handed him the ice pack, which he held up to his eye gingerly, “Drug deal gone wrong?” Albert asked, unzipping the first aid kit and taking out some alcohol pads.  
“Something like that,” Race said, taking one of the alcohol pads Albert was holding out for him. He placed the ice pack on the couch next to him and began cleaning the cuts on his arm. Albert didn’t say anything further and watched as Race took a bandage out of the first aid kit and lifted his shirt to wrap his torso, which had several gashes in it. Albert frowned when he spotted what looked like a burn on Race’s side.  
“Whoa, hey,” He murmured, reaching out to stop Race’s hand so he could get a better look, “You’re burned.”  
“Wait, Albert-” Race tried to pull away, but it was too late. Albert already had a good view of the injury. It looked more like a brandish than a burn and Albert recognized it immediately. It was a small picture of the Brooklyn Bridge, surrounded by the outline of flames. The letter ‘P’ was printed in bold on the middle pillar. The symbol belonged to the Prospect Gang of Brooklyn. One of the two biggest and most dangerous gangs in New York City, only rivaled by the Empire Gang, which was mainly based in Manhattan. The two gangs were notorious for their competition- constantly at war over drug dealing territory and who would hold control over the other three boroughs. Albert had seen more than a few news stories about pedestrians who were killed at the hands of the two gangs after finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.  
The burn looked fresh, like it had been done within the last hour. It was starting to blister and Albert could already tell it’d leave a scar. He swallowed, feeling cold fear run down his spine. He slowly looked up at Race, who was staring at the burn with wide eyes.  
“So I take it you’re not just a drug dealer?” He asked, his voice shaking slightly.  
Race flinched at his words and flicked his eyes over to Alberts, “No.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: a gun is pulled, but not fired

Albert stood and backed away from Race, “What the fuck. Who are you? Why did you come here? How did you find me?”  
Race closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples, “Like I said, I have sources. Listen, I fucked up and nowhere else is safe for me right now. Your apartment is inconspicuous. No one would think to look here.”  
“So your part of Prospect?” Albert asked, “Or..”  
“No, I’m part of Empire,” Race said, calmly.  
“Ohmygod, I’ve got a fucking beat up gang member on my couch. Prospect’s gonna find you and kill you and then probably kill me too. Why didn’t I mind my own business?” Albert rambled, feeling anxiety building in his chest rapidly.  
“Calm down, please, I’ll explain,” Race insisted. Albert took a breath and sat down on the floor, still keeping distance between him and Race.  
“Okay, I’m listening,” He said, “Wait, aren’t gang members supposed to like keep their shit secret?”  
“Yeah, that’s why I lied to you earlier,” Race said, nonchalantly.  
“What?” Albert exclaimed, “So then what about right now? Wouldn’t you still have to lie?”  
“No,” Race said, “Because I know you won’t tell anyone.”  
Albert narrowed his eyes skeptically, “How do you know that?”  
Race smiled unsettlingly, “Because, you’re going to come with me after this.”  
Albert stood up, “Oh fuck no I’m not, get out.”  
Race reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a handgun, then pointed it at Albert, “Yes you are. Sit down, and I’ll explain. You’re useful.”  
Albert blanched and slowly lowered himself down, sitting once more, “How the hell am I useful?”  
Race lowered the gun, but kept it pointed at him, “You’re pushy and convincing.”  
Albert grimaced, “I hate myself, I shoulda just given you you’re wallet and left.”  
“But you didn’t,” Race said, “Which says something about your personality. You’d be great for Empire.”  
Albert laughed incredulously, “What the fuck is happening.”  
“Quit saying that and let me explain,” Race rolled his eyes.   
“What if I don’t agree to help you?”   
“You’re going to agree.”  
“Or what?”  
“Or I’ll shoot you, now please shut up.”   
Albert felt a wave of nausea hit him, “Fine,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.   
“So it’s true that I have heroin on me, but that’s not why the police were after me earlier,” Race started.   
“Why were they after you then?” Albert interrupted.   
“I’m explaining that. Jesus you’re really annoying, you know that?”   
Albert pouted, but gestured for Race to continue, “I’m the resident graffiti artist for Empire. I do the usual graffiti shit, ya know, vandalism and all that, but graffiti is also the way we communicate discreetly with other boroughs, as well as Prospect.”  
“How is that discreet? Graffiti is pretty damn obvious,” Albert pointed out.   
“Exactly,” Race said, “It’s hiding in plain sight. We use pictures and symbols to reference meeting places and deal times. For the longest time, the NYPD just wrote it off as harmless graffiti, but someone tipped them off and they found out that the gangs were using it for communication. Anyway, I was leaving a message for Queens this morning over on the Queensboro Bridge and I guess the bulls saw me doing it and recognized the symbols I was using. So they started to come for me and I ran. I caught a taxi and booked it over here, but I guess they figured I’d be somewhere in Manhattan and they found me again. They tried to get me over near Washington Heights, but I dodged them and ran again. Which is where I bumped into you.”   
“Right, so when and why did you get beat up? And by who?” Albert asked.   
“Yeah, so a little after we parted ways, I made my way to The Lodging House-”  
“-The Lodging House?” Albert asked, cocking his head.  
“Yeah, it’s kinda like a hub for drug deals. Prospect and Empire used as a trade space back when we were mutuals. But since we’ve been at war it’s been mostly abandoned, hence why I went there.”  
“I’m guessing it wasn’t as abandoned as you’d thought?” Albert asked, propping his chin on his hand.  
Race nodded, “Yep, there were a few Prospect guys already there. I don’t know how they knew I’d show up, but they did. Queens is technically Prospect’s territory, but we’ve been trading over there for awhile.”  
“Oh yeah,” Albert said, “Ain’t that the reason you’re fighting?”  
“Mhm, Empire’s technically got control of The Bronx and Prospect’s got Queens, and at first, we’d had Staten Island split evenly between us.”  
“What happened?”  
“Well, a few months ago there was a, uh, a disagreement between Prospect’s leader and his, uh, second. His second ended up leaving and going to Empire instead. It was messy. Yeah, anyway, since then, Prospect’s been feeling pretty petty and they were like ‘fuck it, let’s break our deal with Empire and take their territory’. So to get back at them, we started selling in Queens and they don’t appreciate that.”  
“Who’s their leader?”  
Race scowled, “Spot Conlon. Real pain in the ass, but a damn good leader.”  
Albert hummed, “What about his second? Who was he?”  
An odd expression flashed across Race’s face and he averted his eyes from Albert’s, “No one.”  
“Oh.”  
Race fiddled with his gun idly, evidently lost in thought and Albert cleared his throat awkwardly, “So they beat you up ‘cause they knew you’d been in Queens?”  
Race blinked, seemingly coming back to reality, “Hm? Oh, yeah basically. Beat the shit out of me and I was caught off guard, so my fight response wasn’t as sharp as my flight response. I managed to escape, but not before they made me lose my lunch and stole my spray paints.”  
“And then you came here,” Albert finished for him.  
“And then I came here.”  
Albert took a deep breath, processing everything Race had just told him, “Can I ask a question?”  
Race shrugged, “Sure.”  
“So I know you have ‘sources’ or whatever, but seriously, how’d you find where I live?” Albert asked.  
Race looked down at his gun and clicked the safety on, “Easy. I went back to Jacobi’s and asked for your receipt from earlier, claiming that I wanted to know how much you had paid so I could pay you back. When Jacobi gave it to me, I saw that you’d signed your first and last name, so I took note of it and used some of my gang member magic to track you to your address.”  
“That’s creepy as fuck,” Albert said, slightly horrified.  
“Yeah, well, that’s the tea, sis.”  
Albert scoffed, “Did you just- you know what? That is not the wildest thing you’ve said so far, so I’m not gonna question it.”  
Race laughed loudly, “Good choice. Hey, DaSilva’s a cool last name, by the way. What is it? Portuguese?”  
“Nah, Brazilian.”  
“Really?” Race looked confused, “You don’t look Brazilian.”  
“Yeah, well, my dad is, but my mom’s Irish, so I got her looks.”  
“Ah,” Race nodded, “Makes sense.”  
“Back to this whole gang war shit,” Albert said, finally standing from his place on the floor, “Where do I come into play in all of this?”  
Race stood as well, stowing his gun back into his waistband, “Like I said, you’re pushy and weirdly convincing. You have an odd sort of charm about you.”  
“Okay…” Albert eyed him wearily.  
“We need a guy to get on Prospect’s good side.”  
“Jesus Christ.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: more gun stuff, but its still not fired

Albert felt his heart rate increase as he searched Race’s face, looking for any sign that he was joking. When he found nothing but a cold, hard stare, the blood rushed away from his face.  
“So the only other option is to kill me, right?” He asked.  
“Yeah, that’s the idea.”  
Albert laughed hysterically, “Fine then, just fucking shoot me.”  
Race shrugged, clicking the safety off his gun and pointing it at Albert’s forehead, “I mean, if you insist.”  
Albert reeled backwards, raising his hands defensively, “Wait, don’t actually, dude. Please.”  
The two men froze when they heard a key turn in the lock of the apartment door. They looked over to see Elmer enter, then let out a shout of surprise.  
“Albert, what the fuck is-”  
Race immediately turned towards Elmer and shot the wall next to his head, then aimed it towards his chest, “Close the fucking door and put your hands up.”  
Elmer stared in horror at the bullet hole, “What the fuck, what the actual fuck-”  
“Now!” Race shouted. Elmer jumped and slammed the door shut with his foot, simultaneously lifting his hands and placing them on the back of his head. From where he stood, Albert could see that he was shaking.  
“Man, seriously?” Albert spoke up, causing Race to look at him, “I know that you’re supposed to be some badass gang member or some shit, but did you have to go and shoot the wall?”  
Elmer was still standing in shock, looking between Race and Albert rapidly.  
“Well, would you rather me shoot your friend?” Race growled, “‘Cause I can do that, too.” He cocked the gun again.  
“No,” Elmer squeaked, “The wall got your point across beautifully.”  
“Lovely,” Race smirked, “Do you agree, Albert?”  
“Y-yeah,” Albert stuttered, “I agree.”  
“Awesome!” Race said, “So, Albert’s friend, what’s your name?”  
“Bro, fuck you-”  
“Maybe later when I don’t have a gun pointed at your heart. Don’t fucking smart-talk me. What’s your fucking name?”  
Elmer gulped, “It’s, uh, it’s Elmer. Listen man, I don’t know what your deal is, but I just forgot my laptop so-”  
“Shut up, my god. You and Albert both talk way too much.”  
Elmer slammed his mouth shut and Race walked towards him. He pressed the gun under his chin and leaned in to hiss in his ear, “You listening?”  
Elmer nodded vigorously, “M’listening.”  
“Good. Now, you’re going to leave this apartment and go back to wherever the fuck you were and pretend that you never fucking saw me or Albert, got it?”  
“G-got it.”  
“Perfect. Just know that if you run your mouth to anyone, I will find out and I will kill you.”  
“I understand,” Elmer heaved a sigh of relief as Race lowered the gun.  
“Get out,” Race spat and Elmer left quickly.   
Albert stood, gaping, as Race bolted the apartment door, “There, so we won’t get rudely interrupted again,” he turned towards Albert, letting the hand holding his gun drop to his side, “Do you need to pack any extra clothes?”  
“I-I guess so?” Albert threw his hands up, “Give me five fucking minutes and don’t shoot anything else.”  
Race leaned against the door and crossed his arms at his chest, “I’ll be here.”  
Albert went into his room and emptied his class backpack onto his bed, then dug through his drawers, haphazardly throwing various shirts into it. He swooped down and picked up an extra pair of jeans and a few discarded socks to bring as well. The weight of the situation was starting to take a toll on him and suddenly, his legs didn’t feel like they could support him. He slid to the ground, knotting his hands in his hair; the sound of Race’s gunshot rang in his ears and he had to remind himself that no one was actually hurt. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He technically got himself into this mess, but he had no idea how he was going to get out of it. To say he was fucked was an understatement.  
“It’s been five minutes,” Race called from somewhere outside Albert’s door. Albert groaned and used his doorknob to haul himself up. He swung his backpack over one shoulder and took a deep breath before leaving his room.  
Race had moved from his place by the door and was now perched on the arm of Albert’s couch. His gun was no longer in his hand, which made the knot of nerves that had permanently settled in Albert’s stomach unravel a bit.  
“Excellent,” Race smiled, pushing off the couch and bouncing on his toes lightly, “Ready to roll?”  
Albert rolled his eyes, “Imagine sounding like a white fucking dad while a gun is somewhere in your pants.”  
Race laughed and opened the apartment door, nodding for Albert to walk ahead of him, “I’m surprised you’re not freaking out more.”  
“Believe me,” Albert said, looking over his shoulder to glare at Race, “I’m freaking out.”  
“You’re doing a damn good job at hiding it. Another good quality for Empire. Stoicism.”  
“Can I punch you in the face?”  
“I have a gun.”  
“You’re right.”  
“I know,” They didn’t say another word as they entered the stairwell and began to descend down to the main floor. When they got there, Albert could see blue and red flashing lights outside the entrance way.  
“Shit. Are those police cars?” Race cursed, “I bet someone called about the gunshot.”  
“That’s what happens when you shoot a fucking gun, asshole. It alarms people.”  
Race bit his lip, surveying the area, “We’ll leave through the back door,” he murmured, grabbing Albert’s elbow and pulling him along behind him. Race pushed open the back door and the two of them were dumped into the alleyway behind Albert’s apartment complex.   
“What street are we on?”  
“167th.”  
“Fuck, okay. We better get moving, we’ve got a bit of a journey.”  
“Where are you taking me?” Albert asked, staying close behind Race as they exited the alley.  
“The headquarters for Empire.”  
“Where’s that?”  
“Shut up and you’ll see,” Race said, turning down another street and heading towards a subway station. He stopped at a map and scanned it quickly before saying, “Blue line it is. You got a MetroCard?”  
“Yeah,” Albert answered, pulling out his wallet and extracting his MetroCard. They paid for their ride and caught the incoming blue line. The train was completely empty, which relieved Albert more than he could say. He didn’t think he could handle the risk of anyone finding them out right now.   
He and Race sat down near the train door, “How many stops ‘til ours?” Albert asked.  
“Six,” Race grunted, pulling out his phone and opening Instagram.  
“You have an Instagram? Aren’t you supposed to not be public with anything?”  
Race didn’t look up from his phone as he answered, “No one knows it’s me. It’s a meme account. I like memes.”  
Albert stared at him, mouth slightly agape, “You have a meme account? Wait, how old are you?”  
“I’m twenty-two and yes I do,” Race said, chuckling at a post, “It’s actually gained a lot of traction.”  
“Good for you?”   
Race hummed and pulled out a pair of earbuds, ignoring Albert for the rest of the ride. As promised, they got off six stops later. Albert didn’t recognize the part of the city they were in, but Race seemed to know where they were going. They walked for another twenty minutes, then Race turned abruptly into a little alleyway near an abandoned theatre. He pushed aside a large piece of scaffolding that was leaning against the side of the building to reveal a stage door. Albert watched as he lifted his fist and knocked twice, then once, then twice again. The door swung open a few moments later and the barrel of a gun pointed out from the shadows.  
“Jack, hey, it’s me,” Race said, holding up one hand in front of him, “I think I found us our guy.”  
“Did you brief him?” A man’s voice sounded from the other end of the gun.  
“Sorta? I mean, he knows he’s gonna die if he tries to run.”  
“Perfect, bring him in,” Race nodded pulled Albert into the theatre. Inside, it was dim and smelled distinctly like cigarette smoke. From what Albert could see, there were several hallways leading to other parts of the theatre. A taller, dark haired man, who Albert assumed to be ‘Jack’, was sitting in an old desk chair by a table with several laptops on it. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Albert could make out silhouettes of other people sitting around the table, focusing on whatever task they were doing.  
“Welcome to The Bowery,” Race said, holding out his arms dramatically, “Home to the Empire Gang of Manhattan.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: i don't think any for this chapter, lemme know if i missed something

“You set up your base in a theatre?” Albert asked, crossing his arms uncomfortably at his chest. The other people that had been sitting around the table were now looking at him with skeptical expressions.  
“I wouldn’t call it a base,” Race said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, “More like headquarters. Headquarters sounds cooler.”  
“Higgins?” Jack spoke up.  
Race lit his cigarette and turned towards Jack as he let out a puff of smoke, “Yes, sir?”  
“Shut up.”  
Race rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything further as he sat down on a crate that was propped against the wall, taking another drag.  
“So,” Jack said, standing and pacing over to Albert. Albert held his breath, still toying with the idea that if he said anything wrong, his face would be a target for bullet-practice, “Who’re you exactly?”  
“That’s Albert. We bumped into each other, like, literally bumped into each other earlier today. He-”  
“Higgins!” Jack snapped, causing Race to slam his mouth shut, “I asked him the question and he will be the one to answer. What’s your name?”  
Albert cleared his throat and glanced up at Jack, “Uh,” his voice cracked slightly and he could hear a few snickers from around the room, “Well, he wasn’t lying. My name is Albert.”  
Jack scoffed, “A sarcastic one. Lovely, it’ll be like having two Racetracks running around,” there was more laughter, “Okay, Albert. Albert what?”  
“DaSilva. Albert DaSilva.”  
“Great. I’m Jack Kelly,” Jack stuck out a hand, gripping Albert’s shaking one tightly. Albert caught a glimpse of a handgun in Jack’s inner coat-pocket, “I run things around here in Empire- have since Specs died.”  
“Rest in peace,” Race mumbled and Jack shot him a glare. Race glared back and grimaced around his cigarette.  
“How’d he die?” Albert asked.  
“A brutal stabbing,” Jack jeered. “So, Albert, what made Race choose you to deal with Prospect?”  
Albert opened his mouth to answer, then frowned, “Honestly? I don’t know. He kinda just showed up at my apartment after I bought him lunch and threatened to kill me if I didn’t come help, so, here I am.”  
Jack’s eyebrows flew up, “So you’re literally- wait, what the actual fuck, Antonio? You brought a random guy?”  
Race stood and shrugged, a lazy smile on his face, “He has spunk.”  
Jack growled and pulled his gun out of his jacket, taking a moment to hit Race over the head with the handle before placing it on Albert’s temple.  
“Ah fuck, seriously? I get it, I get it. Y’all can’t be exposed and I won’t expose you or whatever, but please, I’ve had a gun on me too many times in the past twelve hours,” Albert complained.  
“Too bad, bitch. It’s my turn to figure out if you’re fit for this.”  
“Higgins, I hate you,” Albert glowered at Race over Jack’s shoulder.  
“Don’t blame ya,” Race flicked his cigarette butt at the back of Jack’s head.  
“I will shoot both of you, I swear to God,” Jack said.  
“No you won’t,” one of the guys watching from the table piped up.  
“I don’t need you annoying me too, Romeo.”  
“Jack, my man, we all know you would die for us,” another one said.  
“Enough!” Jack bellowed, “Albert, come with me. You too, Higgins.”  
He lead Albert on gun point through a hallway into what looked like an abandoned dressing room, Race trailing behind with another cigarette already dangling from his lips. The room was small and smelled like dust. There were a few card tables with scrimpy chairs set aimlessly around them. Where mirror stations should have been, there was a large tv streaming the local news channel. Jack pulled out one of the chairs and motioned for Albert to sit down. Race hopped up on the table behind him, which somehow supported his weight.  
Jack remained standing, pointing his gun away from Albert’s head and instead towards his crotch. Albert’s eyes widened and he crossed his legs instinctively.  
“Relax,” Jack rolled his eyes, “I won’t shoot unless you give me good reason to. Now, who the fuck are you?”  
“I don’t know what you’re looking for. Like, I kinda got myself involved, but I also definitely was dragged into this.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“Race was running from the police or whatever and he crashed into me and dropped his wallet, so I gave it back to him and then he needed to hide so I brought him to this, like, secret deli place and we had lunch then he got beat up and came to my apartment and I helped him get fixed up then I saw Prospect’s gang symbol burned into his skin, like, under his shirt, so I freaked out and he was like, ‘you’re perfect we need you’, then threatened to kill me so I went with him,” Albert heaved a breath, “Ya know? Recounting that just now made me realize how fuckin’ wild today has been.”  
Jack wasn’t paying attention to Albert anymore. His focus was now on Race, who was pointedly looking at the ground.  
“Prospect brandished you?” Jack asked, “Why?”  
Race lifted his gaze slowly to meet Jack’s, “I wasn’t careful enough. They found me at the Lodging House after I ran from Queens today.”  
“Are you okay?” Jack sounded concerned.  
Race shrugged, “Nothing I haven’t handled before. ‘Sides, it’s not like it’s my first.”  
Jack studied him for a moment longer before saying, “Okay. We’ll discuss this later.”  
Race nodded as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt, “Yeah, okay.”  
“Uh” Jack and Race looked at Albert, “So, back to me? The guy whose balls are in serious danger?”  
Race snorted and Jack’s mouth turned upwards slightly, “You know, Race? You’re right. He has spunk. Listen, you’re too deep into this now for me to just let you walk away. But given the chance, would you?”  
Albert considered this for a moment, “Would I what, walk away? Honestly? I don’t know. My life’s pretty boring and even though this is scary as fuck, I could use some wild shit happening.”  
“Adrenaline junkie, huh?” Jack smiled, “I understand. That rush of danger, man, it’s better than drugs.”  
“Truly.”  
“Okay, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go ahead and keep you around here for a few days. You’re gonna get used to how things work here- assimilate yourself into the routine. But, the fucking second you get cold feet and try to run, this bullet goes into your brain, understood?”  
“Understood, uh, sir,” Albert said, relaxing slightly, “What’s going on with Prospect, then?”  
“You’re pushy.”  
“I prefer the term, ‘eager’.”  
“I prefer the term, ‘annoying’,” Race muttered.  
“I can tell you two are going to be incredibly irritating together.”  
Both Race and Albert pouted, and Race flicked his cigarette butt at Jack once more, “Will you fucking stop it, Tony?” Jack exclaimed.  
“Fine, continue.”  
“Thank you. I’ll explain what’s going on with Prospect when you’ve proven yourself, DaSilva.”  
“So, what do I do for now?” Albert said, uncrossing his legs as Jack stowed his gun back into his jacket.  
“You’re gonna trail Race, help him out on a few trades in The Bronx that we have scheduled. He’ll show you the basics of graffiti communication and get you used to how things are in this shit way of life.”  
“Thrilling,” Albert deadpanned.  
“Shut up, lemme show you around,” Race said, stepping up next to Jack, “Can I, Kelly?”  
Jack waved him off, “Go ahead, I need to discuss this shit with Davey, anyway.” Jack left the room without another word, leaving Race and Albert alone in the dressing room.  
“Who’s Davey?” Albert asked, standing up and rolling the tension out of his shoulders.  
“Jack’s second,” Race said, opening the door and allowing Albert to step out in front of him, “He got here a little after Jack. He’s kinda the brains of the operation- has a little brother, too. Kid’s only 11 years old, but he’s basically the kid brother to all of us.”  
“Why the fuck did he bring his little brother into this?”  
“I think their parents died, so Davey’s his technical guardian or whatever. Either way, it’s not entirely my business to share,” Race fell into step with Albert and they continued to walk down the narrow hallway, “So that room we were just in was the recreation room as you could probably tell. We spend a shit ton of time in their playing poker or whatever and keeping an eye on the news in case there’s anything involving one of us. Right up here,” he pointed as they passed another dressing room, “Is the storage room. We keep all of our trade- heroin, weed, coke, etcetera- in there. Don’t go in unless Jack or Davey instructs you to and never, ever fucking use any of it for yourself. We have our own separate stash of goodies.” They turned a corner and climbed a flight of stairs, which led to what appeared to be backstage.  
“Up here are our living quarters,” Race led him through the wings, which had various storage bins strewn about, each labeled with different names, “Everyone gets a bin. That’s where you’ll keep your clothes and other personal belongings. Think of it kind of like your closet while you’re here. On the other side of the stage, we had a little mini kitchen built in by one of our guys, Jojo, who’s real good with all that construction shit or whatever. So that’s where you’ll find any food and stuff. Hang on, wait here,” Race jogged over to a ladder that led up to a loft. He scaled it quickly and disappeared from view. A moment later, he reappeared holding an empty storage bin. Albert was just about to ask how he was going to get the bin down, when he noticed a large crate attached to a pulley hanging from the loft. Race placed the bin inside the crate and lowered it to Albert, who lifted it out.   
“I left my bag downstairs,” Albert stated.   
Race hopped back onto the ground next to him, “Shit, yeah, you’re right. Be right back.” He sprinted back the way they had come in and returned only a minute later holding Albert’s bag and a sharpie.   
“Here,” Race said, handing Albert the items, “Unpack your stuff and write your name on the box. I’ma go get you a cot,” He climbed into the loft again and this time lowered a decent sized cot, along with a pillow and blanket set, down next to Albert. Albert kneeled as he wrote his name on his bin and unpacked his clothing into it. Once he was finished, Race took the bin and stacked it on top of another that had the name, ‘Finch’, on it. Albert picked up the cot and hoisted it over his shoulder so that he could grab the bedding as well.  
“I got it,” Race said, gathering the bundle, “C’mon, I’ll help ya set up.”  
He lead Albert to the stage, which was sectioned off into blocks with duct tape. There were five blocks, with cots in each. Shower curtains were set up around each block in order to provide some privacy, which Albert had to admit, was pretty clever. As Race lead him across stage, Albert noticed names were written on the duct tape in front of each area.  
“Right, so, you’ll be in a wing with me,” Race said, stopping in front of a block that only had one name, “I was the last to get here, so I’ve been on my own since Jack brought me in.”  
“Cool,” Albert said, setting his cot down on the other side of the shower curtain from Race’s, “Do I put my name on the tape?”  
“Give it a few days,” Race said, dropping the bedding onto Albert’s cot, “You’re not permanent yet.”  
Albert felt his stomach clench, “Well, that’s unnerving as fuck.”  
Race laughed humorlessly, “Well, that’s gang life. Get used to it. Anyway, I need to go see Jack. The bathroom and showers are in the second set of old dressing rooms on the other side of the stage by the kitchen. Get some sleep, we start tomorrow.” Race gave a mock salute and stalked away, leaving Albert to set up his cot.   
After he was done, he went to find his bin to get a change of clothes. Once he gathered his night clothes, he found the other set of dressing rooms. Albert chose the one closest to him and entered. It was significantly smaller than the other dressing rooms, only wide enough to fit a small couch. There was a sink on one side of the room and a two small stalls with toilets on the other. The shower stall was surrounded by a curtain and had a wide array of soap and shampoo bottles spread out on the tile floor in front of it. Each bottle was marked with different initials and Albert made a mental note to make a CVS run if he was going to be here permanently. Opting out of a shower for the night, Albert rinsed his face in the sink and used the restroom. He quickly changed into his sweatpants and sleep shirt and went back out to the stage. He tossed his clothes under his cot, deciding that he’d put those away tomorrow. No one else was in bed yet, which Albert couldn’t help but be grateful for. He laid down on his back, crossing his arms over his eyes. It had really been a long fucking day and he needed room to breathe. It was hard to believe that just that morning, he and Elmer had been eating cereal together on their couch, laughing at some shit TV show. Now, Albert was sleeping in the fucking living quarters of one of the biggest gangs in New York, and in a few days time, he might be on a fucking mission in Prospect. He shook his head, rolling onto his side. Race was definitely a character. Albert was usually okay at figuring people out, but Race was a riddle and a half. One moment, he was yielding a gun, his eyes dangerous. The next, he was smirking like he ruled New York fucking City. He didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. Albert pressed his knuckled to his eyes, willing sleep to come. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but there was no turning back now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug mentions, gunshots, death

Albert was awoken a few hours later to the sounds of people arguing on the other side of the shower curtain. He kept his eyes shut as he strained his ears, trying to catch what the voices were saying.  
“You let someone walk away?” Whispered a voice that Albert recognized as Jack’s.  
“He promised he wouldn’t run his mouth,” Came Race’s reply.  
“Of course he promised, Antonio,” Came another, exasperated voice, “Anyone would promise that if you shot a gun at their wall and threatened to kill them.”  
“Davey’s right,” Jack said, “I can’t believe you, Race.”  
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Race exclaimed defensively.  
“Kill him, Racetrack,” Jack said, his voice was gaining volume, “You were supposed to kill him.”  
“Jack Kelly, you know that I can’t fucking-”  
“Yes, I’ve fucking heard it. I’ve heard a million times that you won’t fucking kill anyone else,” Jack was speaking loudly now, “I don’t know what happened to you in Prospect. I don’t know what part you played in Rockefeller, but you’re going to have to get the fuck over it one day, because in this fucking life, you’re gonna have to kill a few people and-”  
“Shut up, Jack!” Race shouted, “Shut the fuck up. I know that I’m gonna have to kill a few people. Hell, you’ve made me kill a few people, but don’t fucking talk to me about Rockefeller. Don’t ever bring that up, asshole, there’s a fucking reason I don’t talk about it.” Race’s breath hitched after the last sentence.  
“Both of you quiet down, you’re going to wake people up,” The other man, Davey, scolded, “Jack, leave his past out of this. Race, take a deep breath. We’re going to have to think about how to deal with Albert’s roommate, but for now, I think that it would be best if we all just got some rest, okay?”  
“Okay,” Jack mumbled.  
“Thank you,” Davey said, “Race?”  
Albert heard Race take a measured breath, “Okay,” he answered, voice strained.  
“Good, get some sleep, Race,” Davey instructed, “Jack, c’mon.”  
Albert cracked an eye open, watching as two silhouettes walked to the other side of the theatre. He saw Race’s shadow pacing back and forth behind the curtain a few times, before he sat down on his cot. It looked like he was holding his head in his hands.   
Albert felt worry claw at his gut. What were they planning to do to Elmer? He had half a thought to send a warning text to him, but didn’t want to find out the repercussions if Jack found out he’d contacted him. Maybe they weren’t going to kill him, maybe they were just going to recruit Elmer like they’d done with him. Logically, Albert knew that wasn’t the case.   
Albert let out a frustrated sigh and reached under his pillow to grab his phone. It was nearly 6:00 am, so Elmer would be waking up within the hour to go to his morning shift at the coffee shop he worked at.   
Albert clicked into his and Elmer’s texts and bit his lip, trying to decide how to word his message.  
To Elmer: Bro, do me a fat favor and stay at your girl’s place for a few days. Don’t ask questions. I’m handling it. Just don’t go back to our place and never go anywhere alone.  
He hovered his thumb over the send button for a few moments, then delivered it. Elmer was no doubt going to ask questions anyway, but it was worth a shot. He deleted their conversation and slid his phone back under his pillow. Rolling over, he noticed that Race was no longer sitting on his cot. In fact, it didn’t look like he was on his side of the wing at all. Albert frowned and lifted his head, glancing around the parts of the theatre that he could see, but there was no sign of Race anywhere. He got up, curiosity getting the better of him. Carefully, he drew back the curtain separating his and Race’s side, eyes sweeping the dark area. At first he didn’t see anything, then he noticed Race sitting on the ground in front of his cot.   
“You okay?” He whispered, causing Race to jump violently and turn around.  
His face was lined with tear tracks, which he hastily wiped away with his shirt sleeve, “What the fuck? How long’ve you been awake?”  
Albert shrugged, “Not too long.”  
Race stood, then sat down on his cot, pulling his knees up to his chest. He looked tired, “Did you hear anything?”  
Albert considered telling him what he had witnessed of his conversation with Jack and Davey, but thought against it, “Nothing besides you moving around.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah..”  
“Sorry for waking you.”  
Albert waved a hand nonchalantly, “You didn’t, I’m a light sleeper.”  
Race sniffed and lowered his chin to rest on his knees, “What do you want?”  
Albert glanced down, suddenly feeling guilty for invading what was obviously a very personal moment for Race, “Uh, nothing. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”  
Race scowled, “Well, I’m fine. Why do you care anyway? I’ve been pretty terrible to you.”  
“I was just curious, man-” They both startled when Albert’s phone began buzzing.  
Race raised his eyebrows, “You better go get that before Jack or Davey hears. They’re really strict about phones and who we’re all contacting.”  
Albert huffed and let the curtain fall back into place, once again separating himself from Race. He took his phone from under his pillow to see that Elmer was calling him. He quickly declined the call and clicked into his texts.  
To Elmer: No calling. Just text.  
From Elmer: Where the fuck are you man???? What the fuck happened yesterday??? Are you alive?????  
To Elmer: Of course I’m alive, numbnuts. I can’t tell you where I am and I can’t tell you what was happening yesterday, but you’re kinda in danger so…  
From Elmer: BUdDY you can’t say all this shit without an explanation. I’m freaking the fuck out  
To Elmer: Believe me, I am too. Listen, please just trust me. Where are you right now?  
From Elmer: Sarah’s  
Albert slumped onto his cot, relief flooding his system. Elmer was safe at his girlfriend’s place, far from their apartment.  
To Elmer: Thank fuck, okay. Maybe don’t go to work tomorrow. Or move to China and change your name. Idc, just please look out for yourself. Also delete this convo  
From Elmer: Albert what the fuck  
To Elmer: I’m sorry. I gotta go. Remember to delete this. I’ll talk to you when I can  
From Elmer: Jfc ok bye  
Albert erased his messages once more and laid back against his pillows. He scrolled through Instagram mindlessly, trying in vain to get tired again. It was nearing 7:00 am, so he assumed he’d have to be up soon anyway. Eventually, he dozed off, phone still in hand.  
XXX  
“The fuck?” Albert yelped as his pillow was yanked out from under his head.  
“Rise and shine, bitchatcho.”  
Albert looked up to see Race hovering over him, pillow in hand.  
“What time s’it?” He asked, voice still thick with sleep.  
“Like, 8:00 am,” Race thwacked Albert violently with the pillow, ”We gotta long day ahead of us, so get the fuck up.”  
Albert glared at him for a long moment before reluctantly sitting up, “Fine, give me like, ten minutes to change and take a piss.”  
“Awesome, meet me downstairs by the storage room when you’re.”  
Albert gave him a sarcastic thumbs up and watched as Race left the stage. He pulled his jeans out from under his cot and changed into them, then went to the dressing rooms to use the bathroom. On his way downstairs, he stopped by his bin and took out a sweatshirt, yanking it over his head as he bounded down the stairs.   
As promised, Race was waiting outside the storage room, eating a banana. There were two other men with him, one sporting a backwards hat over his curly brown hair and the other leaning heavily on a crutch.   
“Heya, Albert,” Race greeted, “Meet Finch and Crutchie.”  
The one with a crutchie leaned forward, offering a hand, “As you can probably gather, outta the two of us, I’m Crutchie. I’m Empire’s medic, so if you’re aboutta die or some shit, I’ll patch you up.”  
“Uh, sounds good,” Albert said, shaking Crutchie’s hand. He turned to the guy in the backwards hat, “And what about you?”  
“Finch,” The guy grunted.  
Albert cocked his head and looked at Race, who flicked the guy in the back of the head, “Sorry about him, he’s bitter. That’s Finch. He’s our botanist.”  
“Botanist?”  
“I run our drug inventory,” Finch said, toying with a cigarette and looking entirely uninterested.  
“Cool, uh, nice to meet you..” Finch scanned his eyes over Albert, who crossed his arms self-consciously.  
“Likewise.”  
“Well, this is cozy,” Crutchie said brightly, “Anyway, I leave you all to your work. Just thought I’d introduce myself. Toodles!” He waved and hobbled away.  
“You gotta key, Finchy?” Race asked.  
“Don’t call me that,” Finch said, fishing a key out of his jacket pocket and unlocking the storage room door.  
“Oh yeah,” Race said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out another banana, “Here, before I forget it’s in there and sit on it.” he handed the banana to Albert, who hesitantly took it.  
“I didn’t poison it or some shit,” Race laughed, “Just thought you’d be hungry.”  
Albert wordlessly peeled the banana and took a bite, realizing belatedly how hungry he was.   
“Race,” Finch called from inside the storage room, “What do you need?”  
“Uh, get me like, two grams of pot? And...I think that’s it. It’s a small trade.”  
“Kay,” Finch emerged a moment later holding a white paper bag. He handed it to Race who crumpled it and put it into his jacket pocket.  
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Higgins,” Finch held out a hand, “Give me the bag back.”  
Race rolled his eyes and shoved the bag into Finch’s outstretched palm. Finch held his glare as he neatly folded the bag over a few times, then handed it back to Race, who carefully placed it back into his pocket.  
“Happy?” Race jeered.  
“Extremely,” Finch answered with a fake smile, “We done here? I would like to get coffee now.”  
“Yes, we’re done, go get your bean juice.”  
Finch sneered and walked away, disappearing up the stairs.  
“He’s really fucking meticulous about his drugs,” Race said, zipping up his jacket.  
“Meticulous,” Albert repeated, “Didn’t peg you for a fifty-cent-word kinda guy.”  
“Shut up, I went to high school. I glanced at all the SAT words.”  
“Oh, did you? So what does brevity mean?”  
“Uhhhhhhh..” Race screwed up his face in thought, “I said I glanced, dude. That doesn’t mean I retained any actual knowledge.”  
“Brevity’s easy. It’s the quality of being brief or terse.”  
“Albert, have I told you you’re annoying yet?”  
“Many times.”  
“Okay, you’re annoying. Now c’mon, The Bronx is waiting.”  
XXX  
The bleak winter air bit Albert’s face as he and Race left The Bowery. As they walked through the street toward the nearest subway station, Albert couldn’t help but notice the strange feeling that nagged at the back of his neck. The streets felt almost different, like they were hiding some enormous monster underneath them. The ever-existing presence of Empire and Prospect loomed ominously over Race and Albert, blind to the eyes of other pedestrians. He felt incredibly vulnerable, constantly paying mind to who was paying attention to them. Anyone at any time could be a threat- there was no telling who knew what.  
They caught the yellow line that would take them to The Bronx, where they were scheduled to trade with some guy in Fordham at 9:30. It was currently 8:15 and the ride was supposed to take about forty-five minutes, leaving Albert wishing he had his headphones so he could disengage completely.  
“You nervous at all?” Race’s question surprised Albert, and he turned to him  
“Kinda, I guess? How exactly does a trade work?”  
“First off, for the love of God, lower your voice,” Race said, leaning in so that they could talk in quieter voices, “And it’s pretty simple. You missed phase one, which is deciding a meet place and trade time. We do that using the graffiti, which I’ve already told you about. One of these days, I’ll show you the symbols we use and what they mean, but that’s not important right now. So now, we just have to be at the coordinated location and make sure he actually has the cash he promised. If he does, we trade, plain and easy.”  
“What if he doesn’t?”  
Race glanced to the side briefly, “Then, we….” he worried his lip between his teeth.  
“...Kill him?” Albert tried,  
Race looked down at his lap, reaching up a hand to tug at the hair on the back of his head, “I mean, no. That’s like, last resort. Like if he pulls knife on us. Yeah, no, we’d just, like, beat him up.” He was rambling and Albert furrowed his brow.  
“You alright? Why are you getting weird?”  
“I’m not,” Race said, defensively scooting backwards a bit.  
“You totally are,” Albert noted that Race had shrunken in on himself, “Is this something to do with last night? With Rockefeller or whatever Jack was talking about?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Albert regretted them.   
He silently cursed his lack of a filter as Race whipped his head up, “What? How did you-” he scooted backwards further as his expression turned furious, “So you were listening. You lied to me, DaSilva. This puts you on thin fucking ice.”  
Albert pursed his lips, annoyed with himself.  
“If you were listening so carefully,” Race seethed, “Then you should have known not to fucking bring that up.”  
“M’sorry,” Albert mumbled.  
Race didn’t answer as he busied himself in pulling out his headphones, though Albert could see his hands shaking. Albert sat back in his seat and pulled out his own phone, electing to catch up on SnapChat until they arrived in The Bronx.  
Fordham was significantly sketchier than the neighborhoods Albert was used to. The storefronts they passed were all worn down and the deeper Race led Albert into the area, the dirtier it got. Race hadn’t spoken a word to him since their conversation on the train, leaving Albert more or less in the dark about the specifics of where they were going. Eventually, they arrived at an abandoned auto-shop.   
Race walked around to the back of the lot and knocked on one of the garage doors. It opened a moment later to reveal a tall, gruff looking guy.  
“You Racetrack?” He asked, eyeing him suspiciously.  
“Yes, sir, I am,” Race said, sauntering over to him, “But, a little piece of constructive criticism, don’t ever voice your assumptions. If you had been wrong about who was just now, that could have meant serious trouble for the both of us.”  
The guy looked unimpressed, “I expected you to be less twiggy.”  
“And I expected you to have more than one brain cell, but alas.”  
“Whatever,” The guy said, “You got the shit?”  
“Yeah,” Race retrieved the paper bag containing the weed from his jacket, “And you’ll get it as soon as I see the cash.”  
The guy reached into his back pocket and produced an envelope, “Here, you see it. Now give me the goddamn pot already.”  
“Nuh uh uh,” Race wagged his finger, “Calm down, you useless junkie. I already made it very clear the other day that it’s cash first, weed second. Hand it over.”  
“Show me the pot first,” Race opened the bag and held it out for the guy to see. He peered at the bag’s contents, inspecting it closely, “And that’s two grams?”  
Race clicked his tongue, “It should be.”  
The guy nodded and reached into the envelope, revealing a large wad of cash. He held it out for Race to take, who in turn, handed the paper bag over to him.  
Once the items were exchanged, Race spit into his palm and offered it to the guy. Without hesitation, the guy spit into his own hand and shook Race’s. Albert wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
“Pleasure doing business,” Race said, formally.  
The guy huffed a small laugh, “Okay.”  
With that, he stalked back into the auto shop and closed the garage door. Race turned to Albert, looking pleased.  
“That went nice and smooth,” He said.  
“Yeah, seemed easy,” Albert agreed.  
“I’m hungry,” Race declared, “Let’s head back to The Bowery for lunch, then we can do our next trade.”  
“What time’s our next trade? And where?” Albert asked, following Race away from the autoshop.  
“4:00 over in Washington Square Park. We have a little while.”   
The journey back to The Bowery seemed to take less time than the commute to The Bronx. Race had loosened up significantly and was telling Albert about the other guys in Empire as they entered the theatre.  
“So yeah, you met Finch and Crutchie- great guys by the way, absolute geniuses. Aside from them, there’s Mush and Blink, who trade a lot over in Staten Island. Blink’s got an eyepatch. No one knows exactly what happened to his eye, but it definitely involved a knife. Romeo is a little shit, but a total charmer, which comes in handy during trades. Jojo’s the handyman- I’ve already told you about him. Giant teddy bear, that guy. Love him. And then you met Jack and I’ve told you about Les and Davey- oh! I want you to meet Davey, he should be around today, one sec,” As they passed the recreation room, Race stuck his head in, “Hey, Mush.”  
Albert peeked over Race’s shoulder to see a shorter guy with straight brown hair, playing solitaire. He looked up upon hearing his name and smiled, “Hey Race,” He made eye contact with Albert and blinked, “You’re Albert, yeah? The dude Race pulled off the street?”  
“Indeed, that’s me,” Albert said as Race pulled him into the room.  
“Welcome, don’t fuck anything up,” Mush said, placing his cards onto the table and clasping his hands under his chin, “Did you guys need something?”  
“Yeah,” Race leaned against the door, “D’you know where Davey is?”  
“Uh, I’m not actually sure? I saw him and Jack leave a little bit ago. They said they have something they need to take care of over in SoHo.”  
Race frowned, “That’s weird, I didn’t think that they had any trades today.”  
Albert felt his blood run cold as he processed what Mush had told them, “Oh my god,” he muttered, “Oh my god.”  
Race and Mush looked at him, confusion written on their faces, “What? What’s wrong.”  
Albert swallowed and met Race’s stare, panic running down his spine, “Elmer’s girlfriend lives in SoHo.”  
“What are you-” Albert didn’t let Race finished as he fled the room, running towards the exit.  
“Albert, slow down,” Race called, running after him, “Albert!”  
Albert stopped just outside the theatre, turning around to look at Race with wide, terror-stricken eyes, “Race, please, I need to make sure Elmer’s okay.”  
“But what does that have to do with his girlfriend-” Understanding dawned on Race’s face, “Wait shit, is he still at his girl’s place?”  
“Yes and I think that’s where Jack and Davey are headed. Come or don’t, I’m going,” Albert ran to the street and hailed a cab, Race climbing in next to him.  
“Albert,” Race hissed, “You realize this is gonna make it worse, right?”  
“Shut up,” Albert snapped, pulling out his phone and dialing Elmer’s number. When he didn’t pick up, Albert called Sarah.  
“Hello?” Sarah answered from the other side. She sounded okay, which Albert took as a good sign.  
“Sarah, are you at your place?” Albert asked, urgently.  
“No, I’m at the grocery store right now, why? Is everything okay?”   
“Is Elmer with you?” Albert pushed.  
“No,” Sarah said, slowly, “He was still asleep when I left, so he didn’t come.”  
“Shit,” Albert cursed, “Shit shit shit.”  
“Albert, what’s-” Sarah started, sounding worried.  
“I gotta go, but don’t go home,” Albert demanded, not waiting for a reply as he hung up.   
They arrived in front of Elmer’s apartment complex fifteen minutes later. Albert almost didn’t want to go inside, too afraid of what he might find. He forced himself to get out of the cab nonetheless and sprinted in through the front, Race on his heels. He bypassed the elevator, instead darting towards the door to the stairwell and scaling the three flights of stairs to Sarah’s floor. When he got to the apartment, he found that it was locked.   
He cursed under his breath, then turned to Race, who was standing nervously a few feet away, “Do you have, like, anything you can use to pick locks?” He asked, impatiently.  
Race looked like he was having some sort of internal battle as he reached into his boot and pulled out a knife, handing it to Albert, who stuck his tongue between his teeth as he fiddled with the doorknob. It took a few minutes, but eventually he got heard the click indicating that he had succeeded.  
“I don’t think you should go in there,” Race warned, but Albert ignored him.  
The next thirty seconds felt like they went by in slow motion. Albert opened the door to find Jack and a man in a button down shirt and sweater vest standing on the other side. The man in the sweater vest was pointing a gun at Elmer, who was cowering against the wall. Jack looked up as Albert entered the room and opened his mouth to shout something, but was cut off by the sound of a gunshot. Albert looked over to see Elmer slump onto the floor, blood flowing steadily from his head. He screamed and staggered backwards into Race, who caught him and lowered him to the floor. The sound around Albert seemed to muffle. The world was blurry and he was certain that people were talking around him, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.  
“Albert, Jesus Christ,” He felt someone slap him across the face and he flinched, “Stop screaming or Davey’ll shoot you too,” Race’s voice bled into his consciousness and he was suddenly pulled back to reality.  
He closed his mouth, stopping the screams that were escaping him. Without thinking, he looked at Elmer’s body again and his stomach lurched. He bent over to the side and threw up, unable to handle the sight any longer. He heard the door close behind him, then the man in the sweater vest crouched down in front of him.  
His eyes were alarmingly calm as he offered a hand to Albert, “You must be Albert. I’m Davey, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: death descriptions, nightmares, panicking, bombing mentions, pretty graphic descriptions of that

Albert stared at Davey’s outstretched hand, willing himself to make some sort of move, but it seemed like the connection between his brain and his body had frayed. Nothing was working. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move, he could barely think. Distantly, he was aware that he was shaking violently as all semblance of control slipped from between his fingers.  
“You know,” Davey said, his mouth pulling into a thin line, “When someone offers their hand, it’s usually custom to shake it.”  
“Davey,” Jack said, “Give the poor kid a break. You just murdered his roommate for chrissakes.”  
Murdered. He murdered Elmer. Elmer is dead. Elmer’s brains are probably on the ground right now.  
With a jolt, all feeling rushed back into Albert’s body and suddenly, it was too much. He scrambled away from Davey’s hand, pressing himself into the wall. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Elmer’s body slumped on the floor, several feet away. Red painted the wall behind where he lay and Albert couldn’t help but think that it’s going to be a pain to clean up. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the scene, but it only made it clearer.  
“Jesus Christ,” he heard Race mutter, “He’s in fucking shock, Davey, good job. You couldn’ta shot Elmer, like, two minutes earlier?”  
“Wouldn’ta made a difference,” Jack said, leaning a shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms, “He woulda seen him either way. The first death’s always the worst death. Anyway, we should get moving. Only a matter a time ‘fore the cops show up.”  
“Yes, agreed,” Davey said, keeping his eyes on Albert as he stood, “Race, do you have any cannon with you?”  
Race produced a can of spray paint from his jacket pocket, “Yeah. The usual marking?”  
“Yes.”  
Albert cracked open his eyes and watched numbly as Race spray painted what looked like a minus sign inside of a circle onto wall opposite of Elmer’s body.  
“Lovely,” Davey said, standing and clasping his hands in front of him, “Shall we, gentlemen?”  
“Yeah, let’s get going,” Jack said, taking a small duffel bag off the couch and hoisting it onto his back.  
“Okay, gimme two minutes to get Albert up,” Race said, stowing the spray paint back into his jacket, “Watch the door.”  
Davey nodded and led Jack out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Race turned his attention to Albert.  
“Hey, man,” He knelt in front of Albert, who stared blankly into the other man’s eyes, “Are you hearing me?”  
Albert opened his mouth, but no sound came out.  
Race grimaced, “Okay, you don’t have to talk, but we really gotta get outta here and I know you’re probably beyond pissed right now, but you really don’t wanna be here still when the cops arrive.”  
“He didn’t deserve it,” Albert whispered, as anger blossomed in his stomach, replacing the helpless feeling that had previously engulfed him, “He didn’t do a fucking thing wrong, you asshole!”  
Race’s eyes seemed to drain and he looked away from Albert, “I know, but-”  
“No fucking buts, you bastard,” Albert stood up abruptly, pushing Race away from him as he did so, “You-you, he didn’t, I can’t believe,” Albert felt angry, desperate tears filling his eyes, “He’s fucking dead! He’s fucking dead and he’s not coming back and he just wanted to live his life and-and-and it’s my fault..my fault..” he trailed off as guilt flooded every inch of his body.  
He backed into the wall and returned to his previous position, huddled on the floor, “I shoulda just left everything be,” he mumbled, “Then El would still be here and happy and it’s my fault, oh my fucking god, I killed him.”  
“Fuck, Albert,” Race shifted so that he was kneeling, but didn’t make any move to get closer to Albert, “It isn’t your fault, wait.”  
“It is. I killed him, I killed him, I really fucking killed him. He was my best friend and I killed him,” Albert sobbed, tugging angrily at his hair, “I’m so fucking awful,” he crossed his arms, digging his fingernails into the bare skin of his biceps until he felt his skin break.  
“Albert, stop it,” Race said, reaching out to pull Albert’s hands away.  
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Albert hissed through his teeth, “Don’t ever fucking touch me again.”  
“I get it, Albert,” Race said, his tone hardening, “I really do. Believe me, I know what it fucking feels like. I swear to god you can beat the shit out of me later, but we have to go.”  
“We have to go now, you two,” Davey commanded, peeking his head through the door, “He can mope more back at The Bowery.”  
Race huffed out an irritated sigh and stood, “Are you gonna come or not?”  
Albert wiped furiously at his face and used the wall to lift himself up. Without a word, he followed the other three men out of the apartment. He turned to look at Elmer one last time, gagging violently when he took in his friend’s mangled body.  
XXX  
“Jack briefly explained how you and Race came to meet, so I’ll spare you having to answer questions about that, but tell me about this roommate of yours. Is there anyone else he might have told about the little incident that Race created besides his girlfriend?”  
Albert glared at Davey, shifting backwards in his chair. They were sitting at one of the tables in the recreation room, Davey on one end and Race on the other. Race was sitting criss cross on the table next to them, watching as Davey questioned Albert. Albert had yet to speak since they’d returned from Sarah’s apartment.  
“Okay, easier question,” Davey said, intertwining this fingers under his chin and studying Albert’s face, “How did the trade go today?”  
“Oh, it went perfectly-“  
“I’m asking Albert.”  
Albert held eye contact with Davey, setting his jaw.  
“Alright, even easier question: what’s your full name?”  
Albert bit the inside of his cheek, still refusing to answer.  
“Does he do anything but scream, cry, and pout?” Davey asked, turning to look at Race.  
White hot fury ignited Albert’s skin and he stood abruptly. What right did Davey have to mock him?  
“Fuck you,” He spat, before turning on his heel and storming out of the room. His legs carried him to the stage door and he made to push it open, but a hand gripped his arm, pulling him back. He turned to see Jack, staring at him with an aggravated expression. Albert shrugged his hand away and crossed his arms defensively.  
“Where were you planning to go?”  
Albert glanced down to his feet, scuffing the cement floor with the toe of his shoe, “I don’t know.”  
“You can’t leave,” Jack said, quirking an eyebrow.  
“I know,” Albert grumbled, “I just need some air.”  
“There’s air in here.”  
“Fresh air,” Albert said, rubbing his eyes tiredly, “Don’t we have another trade, anyway?”  
Jack’s eye twitched a bit and he answered in a clipped tone, “Romeo and Jojo went to take care of that.”  
“Oh.”  
“Do you want dinner?”  
Albert blinked, “What time is it?”  
Jack pulled back his sleeved and glanced at a Fitbit that was secured around his wrist, “Like, 6:30.”  
“I didn’t even realize how late it was.”  
“Time flies when dudes die.”  
Albert frowned, “Don’t say that.”  
“Sorry, sorry,” Jack said, holding his hands up in surrender, “My b. Too soon, I know. Anyway, I think Finch made tacos if you’re interested.”  
“I’m not really hungry,” Albert said, looking at the wall over Jack’s shoulder, “Can I just, like, go upstairs if I’m not allowed to leave? No offense, but I really don’t wanna talk to you.”  
Jack rolled his eyes and waved him off, “I’ll ignore your lack of respect on account that your friend just died. Go ahead.”  
Albert shot him a look before pushing past him and bounding up the stairs. On his way, he ran into Crutchie, who was holding a plate of refried beans.  
“Hey, Al!” He greeted, “How’re you doing?”  
“Suck my dick,” Albert mumbled, speeding up his steps to avoid further conversation. He was relieved to find the stage empty as he walked over to his cot. He laid down heavily, not bothering to take off his shoes as he stared up at the ceiling. His stomach was still turning and he wiped his clammy hands on the blanket under him. He couldn’t stop picturing Davey driving the bullet into Elmer’s head. Elmer who didn’t ask for any of this. Elmer who-  
Albert pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes harshly, willing himself to stay out of the pit of guilt that had consumed him earlier. He yawned heavily, realizing for the first time how utterly exhausted he was. Suddenly, being asleep seemed a lot more welcoming than being awake, and Albert pulled a pillow under his head and propped a leg up. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall into a fitful sleep.  
-  
“This is your fucking fault,” Elmer seethed, tears mixing with the blood that was running down his face, “You did this to me.”  
Albert tried to move towards him to stop the bleeding- to take out the bullet, but his legs weren’t moving. Elmer sunk to the floor, blood mixing with vomit as he coughed violently. Albert felt tears spring to his own eyes as he helplessly watched his best friend deteriorate. He opened his mouth and tried to call out to him- to apologize- but no sound came out. His breaths felt shallow as a final shudder shook Elmer’s body.  
-  
Reality came crashing back as Albert’s eyes flew open. He stayed frozen on his cot, heart hammering in his chest, not daring to move or even breathe. Elmer’s words echoed in his head and shivers started to course through his body. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he could hear snoring coming from across the room, so it had to be significantly later than when he’d fallen asleep. The smell of blood seemed to linger in the air and Albert tried desperately not to jerk his muscles as panic spread across his skin like spiderwebs.  
He sat up abruptly, unable to remain still any longer. Before he could process what he was doing, he clumsily rolled out of bed and stumbled towards the bathrooms. By the time he got to the shower room, shaky pants were forcing their way out of his throat and he tugged off his shirt- trying, in vain, to rid himself of the horrible feeling that crushed his lungs like iron. Blindly, he turned on the shower and set it to the hottest temperature it would go. He climbed in, not bothering to take off his jeans or socks, and slid down the glass door, allowing the scorching water to burn his skin. Slowly, the spiderwebs ebbed away and Albert became aware of the fact that he was crying. Loud, agonising sobs, were bursting from his stomach and he bit his knuckles, trying to stay somewhat quiet.  
“I’m sorry, Elmer,” He whimpered, “I’m so, so sorry.”  
He startled when he heard the bathroom door open and he fumbled to turn off the water.  
“Relax,” A voice called out, “You can keep it on.”  
Albert stopped, midway through his action, and slowly lowered himself back down so that he was crouching against the door again. Steam had fogged up the glass, and he was facing away from the entrance to the bathroom, but he could tell that the voice belonged to Race. Race slid down behind Albert so that their backs were pressed together through the glass.  
It was silent for a moment, the only sound being the running shower and Albert’s unsteady breaths, then Race spoke, “A couple years back, in 2016 i think, did you hear about the bombing over in Rockefeller Center?”  
Confusion spread through Albert’s mind and he wracked his brain, trying to remember if he had heard of a bombing around that area.  
Suddenly it dawned on him, “The, uh, the,” he cleared his throat, “The one that killed those two families and a couple other guys?”  
“That’s the one,” Race said, and Albert could picture him nodding, “I was there, you know. Witnessed it, uh, first hand. The other guys that died belonged to Empire and Prospect. First deaths I’d ever seen. It was awful. Someone’s bloody foot hit me square in the temple. Got a concussion ‘cause of it.”  
Albert wrapped his arms around his legs, listening intently.  
“The worst, though,” Race continued, “Were the families. I didn’t see much of what happened to them, but there was one little girl-” He cut himself off, taking a moment to breathe, “She and I made eye contact right before the explosion. She was holding her father’s hand. Before anyone could blink, we were all being launched into the air. I was the only survivor.”  
Albert swallowed thickly, “Jesus,” he muttered, “Why are you telling me this?”  
“I’m telling you this, because I know the guilt. The shame. The feeling of wanting to rip your eyes out, so you never have to picture what you saw again. The knowledge that even if you did, the scene is ingrained in your memory forever.”  
Albert shook his head, tears rising again as he gripped his arms, “Stop, I can’t. Stop, please-”  
“I’m also here,” Race cut him off, his tone oddly soothing, “To tell you that life does get normal again. Well, as normal as it can be here, but that’s besides the point. You’ll hit a point where his death won’t plague every second of your existence. It never goes away, but it does get better.”  
Albert sniffled, reaching up to finally turn off the water, “Did, uh, did they ever find who did it?”  
“Hm? What do you mean?”  
“Who did the bombing?”  
Race didn’t answer for a moment, “No, they never caught him.”  
“Oh, well, did you see who it was?”  
Another pregnant pause, “Yes,” Race’s tone left no room for further questions and Albert decided not to push.  
“Can you pass me a towel?” Albert asked, standing awkwardly.  
Race passed him a towel, along with a fresh pair of sweatpants from his bin, “Here, I brought you these too.”  
Albert looked at him, gratitude bubbling in his chest, “Oh, uh, thanks.”  
“Get changed,” Race said, turning to exit the bathroom, “Then meet me down in the rec room. I’m guessing you won’t be going back to sleep and it’s about time you learned the graffiti symbols.”  
XXX  
“Alrighty,” Race exclaimed, pulling out a black sharpie as Albert entered the room, dressed in a hoodie and the sweatpants Race had gotten for him earlier, “So there’s really only seven things you need to know. Four symbols, three expressions.”  
“First up,” Race said, taking a blank sheet of paper out of a notebook that had been on one of the tables, “Is the sign for a killing,” He drew the same sign that he had spray painted over Elmer’s body in the apartment. A circle with a minus sign inside, “You already saw it. Basically, the circle represents the world and the minus sign represents there being one less person in it. We kill, one less person walks the Earth.”  
Next to the first symbol, he drew an upside-down triangle, “This one is the sign for a drug trade. I don’t really know the correlation between the symbol and the meaning for this one, but I think the triangle’s supposed to be the bags we use to trade,” He drew a small squiggle inside of the triangle, “If there’s one of these squiggly things inside, it’s a weed trade,” he drew another upside-down triangle and drew three small dots inside, “If you see one that looks like this, it’s a coke trade. And then,” He stuck his tongue between his teeth as he drew another with a cylinder inside, “This one means a heroin trade.”  
“To figure out times for trades and meets,” Race said, drawing a circle with clock hands inside, “We use clocks. But here’s the catch,” He set the clock hands to 3:15, “We always put the opposite of the actual time in the drawings. So like, this looks like 3:15, but if you were to put the hands on the exact opposite side of the clock, it’d be 9:45, which is the actual meet time. Kapische?”  
Albert nodded slowly, taking in the information, “Yeah, I think so.”  
“Awesome,” Race grinned, “So then we either put a small sun to indicate daytime, or a half-moon to indicate nighttime.”  
“Okay, last one,” He said, turning the paper over and drawing a quick sketch of the Empire State Building with a capital E on the inside, “Empire’s brand. Simple and easy. You see that? You know Empire’s been through.”  
“Now,” He said, sliding the paper to Albert, who folded it up and put it in his pocket, “Common phrases. First up is ‘cannon’. That literally just means spray-paint. So if you hear someone ask for cannon, they’re asking for a can of paint. Cool?”  
“Yeah,” Albert said, perching himself on the table, “Cool.”  
“Great. Next is ‘grassroots’. That just means drug trade and you’ll usually see that accompanied by one of the symbols I showed you a second ago. And then last is ‘talkback’, which just indicates a drug free meet-up. The leaders use that one most to discuss whatever shit they need. Any questions?”  
Albert shook his head, “No, I think I’m good.”  
“Quick learner,” Race smiled.  
Albert allowed himself to smile slightly, “Eh, decently quick,” he looked down as curiosity itched at the back of his neck, “Can you, uh, finally tell me what’s going on with Prospect?”  
The smile seeped off of Race’s face and he nodded solemnly, “Yeah, lemme go get Jack, though. He’s gonna wanna be the one to brief you. I’m not technically qualified.”  
Race left Albert sitting on the table, returning a few minutes later with Jack, who was holding a coffee cup. He was dressed in a dark purple robe with blue slippers on his feet and if Albert had been in a better mood, he would have found his attire entertaining.  
“Morning, Albert,” He said, sipping the coffee idly, “How’d you sleep?”  
“Uhhh,” Albert flicked his eyes over to Race, who got the message.  
“I kept him up to explain more of the inner workings and teach him graffiti basics,” Race said, smoothly, “I’m telling you, he ain’t going anywhere. He’ll be no more ready in a week than he is now.”  
“Alright, alright,” Jack said, sitting in one of the chairs and pulling his robe tighter around himself, “So Race told ya the gist of our little disagreement with Prospect, right?”  
“Yeah, the whole turf war shit, right?”  
“Mhm, so that’s been messy, but then recently this new phrase has started popping up in random places, and we know it’s from Prospect because they always put their branding after.”  
“What’s the phrase?”  
“Less is more.”  
“Less is- what?” Albert scrunched his eyebrows in confusion.  
“Less is more,” Jack confirmed, “At first we didn’t think anything off it, but it was everywhere. Selling spots, any given alley, even once on a park bench. We brushed it off until it showed up about a week ago right outside our stage door with a scary addition.”  
“Scary addition?”  
“Yeah, instead of just ‘Less is more’, someone used some cannon to write, ‘Operation Less is More Will Commence in 30 days’. It scared the shit out of poor Romeo who found it.”  
Albert cocked his head, “I never noticed that anywhere outside the theatre.”  
“That’s ‘cause we had Race cover it up. Anyway, your part in this is to go over to Prospect, become buddy-buddy with ol’ Spottie, and figure out what the fuck ‘Operation Less is More’ is.”  
“When, hypothetically, would you want me to go?”  
Jack took a long drink of his coffee, “I mean, as soon as possible.’  
Albert felt fear tug at his conscience. This was an awful situation and he knew it, but he wasn’t about to let Elmer’s death be for nothing. Maybe if he figured out was ‘Less is More’ was, he’d be able to save some lives.  
A new sort of determination gripped his mind as he made eye contact with Jack, “I’ll do it.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: gunshots, implied death

Although Albert’s mental state was far from okay, it was in his nature to be optimistic. As much as everything had gone to shit in the past week, he forced himself to get up every day and assimilate as best as possible into gang life. The nightmares hadn’t stopped yet, though. Every night, he was plagued with clear images of Elmer, dead against the wall of Sarah’s apartment, brain matter splattered aimlessly on the eggshell white walls behind his lifeless form. But he learned quickly that a hot shower almost always brought him down, and since the night that Race had confessed his experience with Rockefeller to him, he had learned to keep quiet during a breakdown.  
Ever since the night of Albert and Race’s talk, the dynamic between them changed significantly. Albert found himself relaxing around him, and would often join him for breakfast, which for Race never seemed to deviate from a singular banana. They got into the habit of playing various card or board games in the rec room after trades and Albert learned very quickly that Race had a talent for strategy. He rarely won against him, but his competitive disposition forced him to continue game after game.  
“Check,” Race exclaimed, eyes glinting triumphantly as he moved his bishop in line with Albert’s king. It was Saturday night, exactly a week after Albert’s arrival in Empire, and trades had been particularly slow that day. Romeo and Jojo had gone to handle the one trade they had in Staten Island, leaving the rest of the group to mill about the theatre lazily. Snow had begun to fall rapidly outside, so the prospect of leaving was quickly shot down.  
“Bullshit, you cheated,” Albert countered, squinting at Race, “We’ve been playing for, like, two minutes. There’s no way you already have me in check.”  
“Not cheating,” Race said, loftily, “Just really good.”  
Albert shook his head, scanning the board for any moves he could make in an attempt to escape Race’s bishop. He sighed when it became evident that he was stuck.  
“You’re a motherfucker, Higgins,” Albert mumbled as Race took his king, cackling.  
“I may be,” Race grinned, “But I’m a smart motherfucker.”  
“In some respects, but don’t give yourself more credit than you’re worth.”  
“Rude,” Race pouted. Albert snorted, glancing to the side at the TV, which was playing the local news, as per usual. He frowned when the camera zoomed in on what looked like a crime scene. Race followed his gaze and both boys blanched as the reporter spoke.  
“This morning, Soho residents, Elmer Kasprzak and Sarah Wilkinson, were found dead in their apartment,” He said, solemnly, “Officials predict that they had been dead for nearly a week before their discovery. Several gunshot wounds were found during the autopsies, clarifying the cause of death. But perhaps the most disturbing detail, was the graffiti found on the wall at the scene of the crime,” The camera zoomed in on the symbol for death that Race had spray painted that day, “This notorious symbol is known to be used by Empire and Prospect. Two of the warring gangs here in New York City.”  
Albert hadn’t even noticed he was shaking until Race reached out and tentatively took the pawn that he had been holding out of his iron grip.  
Albert’s tongue felt heavy as he spoke, “Sarah was, uh, she was killed, too?”  
Race set his jaw, eyes fixed on the chess board, “I didn’t know. But, yeah, I guess Jack and Davey didn’t wanna risk it.”  
Albert closed his eyes, desperately trying to stop the tremors in his chest. He could feel Race watching him, but he couldn’t stand to look at him right now. Sure, he had predicted that Sarah wouldn’t be let off the hook, but seeing it become a reality felt like someone burning an exposed nerve. He felt sick.  
“I’m gonna shower,” He said, after another few seconds of tense silence, save for the disturbing murmur of the TV.  
Race didn’t say anything as Albert walked out of the room on shaky legs, numbly venturing to the showers. He stopped along the way to grab a towel from the bathroom bin, but frowned when he found a note saying all the towels were being washed. Scowling, he turned down the adjacent hallway to the bathrooms and entered he laundry room.  
He startled slightly when he found Crutchie, perched on top of the washing machine, pulling towels out of the dryer to fold them. He looked up when Albert entered.  
“Heya, Al,” He chirped, smiling too widely for Albert’s liking, “Need something?”  
Albert licked his lips, acutely aware of the nausea that still thrummed in his stomach, “Uh, yeah,” he croaked, clearing his voice a bit, “Just, uh, just a towel?”  
“Ah,” Crutchie hummed, taking a folded towel from the top of the pile and tossing it to Albert, “Sorry ‘bout that.”  
Albert nodded his thanks and turned to leave, but was stopped by Crutchie’s voice, “You okay?”  
Albert plastered on a fake smile, “Peachy.”  
Crutchie studied him for a moment, “You’re pale. You sick? I could get you some-”  
Albert waved a shaking hand, effectively quieting the other man, “I’m fine, man, I just wanna shower.”  
Crutchie’s looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply shrugged, pulling another towel out of the dryer, “Alright,” he sighed, “Hey, I know we’re part of a gang and soft shit ain’t really, like, a thing. But if you ever need someone to talk to…” he trailed off and Albert shifted uncomfortably.  
“Uh, thanks,” he said, hand on the doorknob. He really just wanted to shower.  
Crutchie seemed to sense this, “Alright, I’ll letcha go, man. Have a nice shower.”  
Albert shot him a thumbs up and left the laundry room. To his relief, the bathroom was vacant and he locked the door, savoring the solitude it provided him. He turned the shower to the hottest setting and stepped in, allowing the water to wash over him. He breathed deeply as the shivers that wracked his body slowed to a stop. Ten minutes later, his mind was significantly clearer and he couldn’t help but think that he was getting better at handling this.   
He climbed into bed, stomach rumbling, and with a jolt, he realized that he hadn’t eaten dinner. He considered getting up to find a snack, but decided against it. He’d just eat extra in the morning. Besides, everyone else seemed to have gone to bed while he was in the bathroom and he didn’t really know how to cook.  
He settled into his blanket, taking his phone off the floor and clicking into his Snapchat. A lot of his streaks were lost in the last week, but he decided to send out a few just for the sake of it. He didn’t want to lose all connections to his previous life. His friend, York, answered a few moments later, demanding to know where he’d disappeared to. Biting his lip, Albert decided to leave him on read. It wasn’t worth the trouble.  
“Hey, Al, you up?” Albert lifted his head off of his pillow. Through the curtain, he could see the outline of Race’s curly hair propped on his hand.   
“Yeah, what’s up? You good?” He whispered back, shifting so that he could hear better.   
“No, yeah, I’m good. I was just gonna tell you to follow my meme account.”  
“On Instagram?”  
“Yeah.”  
Albert suppressed the urge to laugh, “I mean, uh, sure. What’s your user?”  
“Uh,” Race pulled back the curtain and peered around, making eye contact with Albert, “It’s a shit ton of underscores, then hotdogmilk- all one word- then another underscore.”  
This time Albert really did laugh, but more out of disbelief than anything else, “You’re kidding.”  
“No?” Race’s eyebrows furrowed, “That’s it.”  
“No, no it’s just that I’ve been following you since you were at 400 followers. Good content, man.”  
Race was practically glowing, “Thanks!”  
“Yeah, no problem,” Albert hesitated, then asked on a whim, “Wanna go make mac and cheese? I haven’t eaten since lunch.”  
Race smirked, already moving to put on a pair of socks, “Yeah, man, I’m down.”  
They tiptoed to the kitchen and quietly got out the ingredients. Albert was reaching for a box of elbow macaroni, when Race stopped him, “Ah, ah, let’s use my stash,” he said, winking.  
Albert frowned, “Your stash?”  
Race nodded, kneeling on his hands and knees to reach under the sink. He brought out a gallon sized plastic bag, filled with penne pasta.  
He held it up, grinning, “No one else knows about this, but it’s a Higgins family specialty.”  
Albert’s eyebrows shot up, “You make pasta?”  
Race blinked owlishly, “Yeah,” he said, sounding vaguely condescending, “I’m Italian.”  
Albert jerked his head back in surprise, “You’re Italian?”  
“I know,” Race said, “The blonde hair and blue eyes are off-putting, but yeah, I’m Italian,” he moved to put water on the stove, “Weren’t you there when I cursed Jack out in Italian after he won poker the other night?”  
Albert put a saucepan on the stove next to the pasta pot, “I mean, I was, but I thought you were just extra like that.”  
“Nope,” Race said, “I mean, you’re not incorrect, I am extra, but that was legit.”  
“Wow,” Albert said, starting to melt butter for the cheese sauce, “The more ya know.”  
“So, tell me about yourself, Al,” Race said, conversationally as he waited for the water to boil.  
Albert glanced sideways at him, adding some flour and milk to the butter to create a bechamel sauce, “What do you want to know?”  
Race shrugged, sticking out his bottom lip a bit, “I dunno, what do you like to do? What are your interests?”  
Albert stirred the pot thoughtfully, “I don’t really know. I was studying to become a mechanical engineer before all this shit went down, so I dunno. Stuff like that.”  
“Damn,” Race breathed, “Mechanical engineering’s pretty intense.”  
“Nah, s’just numbers and stuff,” Albert said, nonchalantly, “Couldya pass me the cheddar cheese?”  
Race passed him the bag of cheese and watched as he added it to the now thick sauce.  
“What about you?” Albert asked, “What are your interests?”  
Race scuffed the floor with his toe, looking mildly uncomfortable, “I dunno, I haven’t done much outside of shit for Empire,” he paused for a moment, “But I do like to read. I’m not great at it, but I like doing it.”  
“Yeah?” Albert was a little surprised, Race didn’t seem like the reading type, “What do you like to read? Also, the water’s boiling.”  
“Shit,” Race scrambled to turn down the stove, then added a fair amount of salt to the water before pouring his pasta in, “Thanks.”  
“No problem.”  
“Anyway,” Race continued, probing the pasta to break the pieces apart, “I like books that make you, like, think, ya know? Like, 1984, and shit like that.”  
Albert clicked his tongue approvingly, “That’s a goodass read.”  
“Ain’t it? Like, it’s not like the other shit dystopian novels. It’s got hella depth and is more than just, death and destruction and shit.”  
Albert nodded, “I feel,” he brought the cheese sauce off the heat and covered it with a lid, “That’s definitely on my list of favorites.”  
“I thought I heard voices,” Albert and Race jumped violently at the new presence. A boy, who looked no older than 10 years old, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a white undershirt and Star Wars themed pajama pants.  
“Les!” Race blurted out, “It’s, like, near midnight. You should be asleep.”  
“I’m 11,” Les said, looking slightly offended, “I don’t have a bedtime.”  
Race floundered for a moment, but Les was already moving to seat himself at the counter, “Anway,” he smiled, “Hi, Albert.”  
Albert blinked, “How did you know-”  
“I heard there was a new guy and I don’t recognize you. I put two and two together, it’s not rocket science.”  
Albert and Race exchanged a bemused look, “Anway, what’re you guys making?” Les questioned, gesturing to the pots on the stove.  
“Mac and cheese,” Race said, draining the cooked pasta, “Want some, squirt?”  
Les rolled his eyes, “I stopped being squirt when I turned ten, you useless Italian.”  
“Geez,” Race looked slightly wounded, “Harsh crowd. Guess you don’t want any.”  
“Bitch!” Les squeaked, “Of course I want mac and cheese.”  
“Then you better respect your elders,” Race sang, transferring the pasta to the cheese sauce pan and stirring.   
Les hopped down, peering over his shoulder at the mac and cheese, “That’s what good pussy sounds like.”  
“Les,” Race scolded, as Albert and Les cackled, “No vine references. That’s my thing!”  
“Who said!”  
“I did!”  
“So what?”  
“Listen, you tiny shit-”  
“Guys!” Albert cut them off, “Can we just eat the goddamn mac and cheese? I’m starving.”  
Race huffed, but served three bowls of the dish nonetheless. They all sat at the counter, digging in right away.  
“Holy shit,” Albert said, mouth full of pasta, “This is really fucking good penne, Race, what the fuck.”  
Race smiled, cheeks stuffed with food, making him resemble some sort of blonde chipmunk, “Thanks!”  
They ate in silence, the only sound being the scrape of forks against ceramic bowls. Each of them helped themselves to seconds, then thirds, until it was all eventually gone.  
“Wow, I have a massive food baby, now,” Les commented, patting his stomach idly.  
“Me too,” Race groaned, “And I forgot my lactose pills, so I’m aboutta die.”  
Albert choked on the water he was drinking, “You’re lactose intolerant, too?”  
“Yeah, wait,” Race said, eyeing him, “Does this mean you also forgot your lactose pills?”  
Les looked between them a few times, “Rip,” he muttered.  
They cleared their dishes, then got to work tidying up the kitchen. They finished fairly quickly and made to go back to their beds, but were stopped short by a very annoyed looking Davey outside the kitchen.  
“Lester Jacobs,” he reprimanded, arms folded at his chest. He looked like a mother. A very terrifying, murderous mother, “What are you doing still awake?”  
Les shrugged, pushing past him down the hallway, “Midnight snack!” He called over his shoulder.  
Davey sighed, “Kids,” he muttered, addressing Albert and Race for the first time, “Did I miss mac and cheese?”  
Albert glared at him, hatred bubbling in his stomach. He hadn’t had many interactions with Davey since the day of Elmer’s murder. Only a passing glance here or there. He still made Albert’s skin crawl. His authoritative and oddly stoic demeanor sat badly in his stomach and that, combined with the fact that he quite literally shot his best friend in the head, made him a candidate for the top of Albert’s enemy list.  
“Yeah, sorry, bucko,” Race said, clapping him on the back apologetically.  
“Shame,” Davey said with no real emotion behind his words, “Anyway, do you think you two could pick up a trade in Queens tomorrow?”  
Albert opened his mouth to snap something, but Race interjected before he could, “Sure, what time?”  
Davey clicked into his phone, pulling up a photograph of some graffiti, “It looks like, um, 7:15. Heroin trade.”  
Race’s jaw dropped, “7:15 am?”  
“Looks like it,” Davey said, “Here, I’ll send you the picture for reference.”  
“Thanks, Davey-o.”  
“Don’t call me that.”  
“Sorry.”  
XXX  
Albert woke up to a faceful of shaving cream. He choked, spluttering for a minute, before gathering his wits enough to wipe the cream off of his face.   
He sat up, glaring at Race, who was holding a can of shaving cream, an innocent smile plastered on his face, “I tried to shake you awake, but you were comatose. I had to resort to extreme measures.”  
Wordlessly, Albert took a handful of cream off his face and chucked it at Race, who dodged it skillfully, “Bitchass,” he grumbled.  
“C’mon, I already letcha sleep in some,” Race said, nudging Albert’s exposed leg with his boot, “We gotta get going. Wash up while I get the shit from Finch.”  
Albert flipped him off, but got up nonetheless, getting clothes from his bin, before heading to the bathrooms to clean off his face and freshen up. Ten minutes later, the two of them were exiting the theatre into the snow, bananas in hand. It was 6:45 and still dark, casting a calm atmosphere over the city. They were to be in Corona, Queens in a half-hour, so they opted to take a taxi rather than the subway. Albert was still fairly tired, so he took the ride to doze against the window. They arrived 20 minutes later and trekked through the cold to the location of a trade, teeth chattering in the wind.  
“I think it’s in here,” Race said, nodding his head towards an old furniture store on the corner of one street.   
They entered the shop and Albert frowned, “How will we know who to give the trade to?” He whispered as they made their way to the back.  
“A code for heroin in our circle is ‘powder’, so I’ma ask if they have any and see what the guy responds with.”  
Albert nodded, following him to the counter, where a young man, probably around twenty, was sitting. He looked half-asleep, but perked up when they approached, “Can I help you?”  
“Yeah,” Race said, “Got any powder?”  
The guy raised his eyebrows skeptically, “You Empire?”  
Race reflexively looked over his shoulder, tensing up slightly, but he recovered quickly, “Depends who’s asking.”  
“Trevor.”   
Race relaxed upon hearing the name, “Beautiful, yes. I’m Empire. Got the dough?”  
Trevor nodded, opening the cash register and pulling out fifty dollars. Race grinned and held out his hand expectantly. Trevor rolled his eyes and reluctantly placed the cash in his outstretched palm.  
“Kay, there’s your shit,” He snapped, “Where’s mine?”  
Race pocketed the money and reached into his jacket, pulling out a neatly folded paper bag and placing it on the counter. He waited while Trevor poured out the contents and studied it for a moment before nodding. He looked pleased as he spit into his palm and held it out for Race to take, who returned the gesture.  
“Thank ya,” He said.  
“Welcome,” Race said, pumping his hand too enthusiastically for 7 am, “Pleasure doing business.”  
“Likewise.”  
They exited the store, delayed only briefly by Race getting sidetracked by an ugly carpet purse, claiming that Romeo would love it. Eventually, Albert was able to drag him out and down the street, but before they could hail another taxi, Race let out a yelp and pulled Albert into a small bodega.  
“What are we here for?” Albert hissed, tugging on Race’s sleeve as he browsed the aisles.  
“I’m tryna get high tonight,” Race said distractedly, plucking a bag of jalapeno cheetos off a shelf, “And these,” he held up the bag for Albert to see, “Are wonderful when the munchies hit.”  
Albert bit his lip, annoyance and vague fear pricking the back of his neck, “And we couldn’ta done this, I don’t know, in our own turf where we aren’t at risk of getting fucking killed?”  
“Please,” Race scoffed, “We’re always at risk of getting killed.”  
“What if some Prospect guys catch us?”  
“I’ve got a gun and a knife, we’re fine.”  
“Okay, but what if-”   
“Jesus Christ, shut up and let me buy fucking cheetos, it’ll take two seconds.”  
Albert squinted at him, but stopped talking nonetheless. Race began to scan the shelves again and Albert glanced around, zeroing in on a packet of gum. In a sudden moment of impulse, he reached out and opened it, taking a singular piece of gum out and popping it into his mouth.  
“What the fuck are you doing?” Race asked, cocking his head, making him look like a confused dog.  
“I’m a criminal now,” Albert said, chewing, “May as well live up to it.”  
“By stealing gum?”  
Albert blew a bubble, popping it loudly, “Yes.”  
“Alrighty then,” Race said, slowly, “Lemme check out, I’ll be right back.”  
Albert wandered around the store for a few more minutes before Race met him by the milk, “Ready to go?”  
Albert nodded, putting the gallon of chocolate milk he had been studying back in the refrigerator. They got out of the bodega to see that the sun had risen completely and Albert had to squint to see clearly.   
Race clicked into his phone, mumbling something about ordering an Uber this time, because they’re cleaner, but shouts from the alley they were next to put them on alert. Race and Albert frowned at one another before scooting closer to hear.  
“What the fuck is this?” A low, gravelly voice, thick with a Brooklyn accent, growled.  
“Uh, it’s uh, it’s weed, man, like I said,” Another voice said, fear dripping in their tone.  
“No, asshole,” The Brooklyn accent snarled, “This is fucking oregano.”  
“I didn’t know, man, I’m-”  
“Save it. Hotshot, take care of him,” Brooklyn accent barked, “Motherfucker really thinks he can trick the King of Brooklyn.”  
“You got it, boss,” A new voice said. Albert spared a glance at Race, who had turned a scary shade of white. He looked like he was shaking and Albert frowned. What was happening? A gunshot brought both of them out of their trances and Race cursed under his breath, grabbing Albert’s arm and running in the opposite direction. As they sprinted, Albert couldn’t help but be reminded of the day they met, when Race was running from the police. Albert grimaced to himself as he thought about how simple his life had still been then. He missed it, but this was his life now and there were more pressing issues at hand.  
They stopped in a new alleyway, several blocks away. Albert leaned against the wall, sucking in air in an attempt to catch his breath.  
“So much for an Uber,” He panted, “What the fuck just happened? Were those Prospect guys?”   
He looked up at Race, who had his back against the bricks, eyes squeezed shut and arms laced behind his head. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself, before opening his eyes and locking his gaze with Albert. His expression was indescribable and Albert couldn’t help the wave of dread that flooded his body like ice water.  
“That was Prospect alright,” Race said, swallowing, “That there,” He paused, taking a deep breath, “that was Spot Conlon.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: drug mentions,,,

“Save it. Hotshot, take care of him. Motherfucker really thinks he can trick the King of Brooklyn.”  
“You got it, boss.”  
Snarling, Spot turned away, busying himself with lighting a cigarette as a gunshot rang out behind him, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground. He tried not to wince, his heart hammering in his chest as he turned around to see the druggie’s body, mangled and bloody on the ground.  
Bile threatened to rise in his throat, but he ignored it, retaining his neutral expression as he took another drag of his cigarette, deliberately blowing the smoke in the direction of the body.  
“Asshole,” he mumbled, flicking the small bag of oregano next to the guy’s head.   
“Ready to go back?” Hotshot asked, slipping his gun back into the waistband of his jeans.  
“Mark it first,” Spot snapped, “We’ll leave once you do that.”  
Hotshot shifted uncomfortably, prodding the guy’s leg with the toe of his shoe and biting back a gag, “Yeah, okay.”  
“Get to work,” Spot waved a hand dismissively, “I’ll keep watch.”  
He averted his eyes from the scene and crossed to the mouth of the alleyway, keeping his arms folded as he scanned the streets. He could hear Hotshot spray painting behind him and at one point, the distinct sound of someone vomiting echoed through the space. Eventually, Hotshot joined him at his side, hands shaking as he stowed his spray paint can back into his jacket.  
They set off back in the direction of Prospect’s base, The Refuge, complete silence ringing between them. The streets of Brooklyn seemed to darken, taking on a more sullen tone as they approached the tall, seemingly abandoned building.   
They entered, voices from other members of Prospect dying down as they walked further in.  
Spot sat down at one of the card tables, raising his eyebrows expectantly, “Deal me in.”  
Spot dominated several rounds of poker, casually draining everyone of their money. Another round was just dealt when a knock at the door sounded. Bumlets placed down his cards and got up, extracting his gun out of his jacket as he did so. He walked to the door, executing Prospect’s signature knock.  
The response knock resonated in return and Bumlets opened the door, gun still raised just in case. The room collectively relaxed when Trevor, Prospect’s resident spy, walked in.  
He nodded his thanks to Bumlets, then crossed to Spot leaning down behind his chair to speak in his ear, “We got a situation.”  
Spot furrowed his brow, “What kind of situation?”  
Trevor’s eyes flicked around the room, “Alone.”  
Spot nodded, putting his cards down and standing. He motioned for Trevor to follow him up the stairs and into his meeting room, which was adorned with nothing more than a few card tables pushed together. Spot sat down in one of the chairs that surrounded the table and motioned for Trevor to do the same.  
“What’s going on?” Spot demanded as soon as they were settled.  
“Empire’s back on their shit,” Trevor bit out, “Traded with me this morning.”  
Spot set his jaw, fist clenching on the table, “Do you have any idea who it was?”  
“Uhh, didn’t catch his name, but he was a blondie. Curly hair.”  
Spot’s nostrils flared as anger and a concoction of other emotions bubbled in his stomach, “Higgins,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “Was he alone?”  
Trevor shook his head, “Nah, but you know who I’m talking about?”  
“Yes,” Spot closed his eyes for a moment, grinding his teeth, “Not your place to ask.”  
Trevor looked down, sheepishly, “Sorry, I-”  
Spot held up a hand, effectively shutting him up, “Who was he with?”  
“Uhh, some ginger.”  
“Ginger?” Spot cocked his head, rifling through the members of Empire that he knew of, but no redheads came to mind.  
“Yeah, he seemed pretty nervous, too,” Trevor added, “Didn’t do any of the talking. Seemed to just be along for the ride.”  
“Ah,” Spot said, trying to process the new information, “Well, thank you for letting me know,” Trevor sat awkwardly for a moment and Spot scowled, “You can go now.”  
Trevor nodded quickly, before standing and hurrying out of the room.  
Spot sat back in his chair, propping his feet onto the card table. He leaned his head back until he was peering at the ceiling, a million thoughts swimming through his mind. His own trade that morning had been in Queens, not far from Trevor’s shop. Did that mean that he had been near Race? Had Race seen him?   
He distantly wondered what would have happened if they had seen each other. Nothing good, no doubt.   
Maybe a continuation of their last conversation.  
A dull pang of regret hit his gut, slowly manifesting throughout his body. He reached into his pocket, extracting a juiced out lighter. He ran his thumb over the faded ‘R’ that was engraved on the side.  
With a rush of adrenaline, he chucked it across the room, watching as it broke it half once it made contact with the wall.  
XXX  
“Are you alright?”   
Race hung his head, closing his eyes as he held up his hand to knock on the stage door to The Bowery.   
“Yes,” he sighed, knocking, “Leave it.”  
Albert grimaced, closing his mouth as Race knocked. He had barely spoken on the entire journey back to Manhattan. To say he seemed on edge was an understatement. His face was still pale and during their entire Uber ride back, Albert could see a shaky hand lingering near his belt, right where his gun was located.   
A chorus of shouts rang out down the street, followed by loud cursing. It was nothing out of the ordinary for the city, but Race jumped violently, flinching a bit before knocking more desperately.  
The door swung open a moment later and the usual precautionary gun pointed out. Race whined a little and pushed past whoever was on watch duty at that moment.  
“Not in the mood, Jojo,” he mumbled, walking in hurriedly and practically sprinting up the stairs in the direction of the bathrooms.  
Jojo watched him go, then turned to Albert, concern and confusion written on his face.  
Albert raised his hands, shrugging, “I don’t know, bro,” he said, “We ran into Prospect-”  
Jojo’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, but Albert shook his head.  
“Well, we didn’t necessarily run into them, but we heard them do a trade near us and they killed some dude. Race got pretty spooked.”  
Jojo nodded, “Yeah, he’s not great ‘round that stuff.”  
“Yeah,” Albert said, “I know. Don’t think it helped that one of the guys was Spot Conlon.”  
“What!?” Jojo looked horrified and Albert waved his hand for him to be quiet.  
“Shhh,” He hissed, “but yeah. They didn’t see us, though. We’re safe.”  
Jojo didn’t look convinced, but he dropped the subject anyway, shaking his head as he crossed to the rec room. Albert followed him awkwardly, pulling out his phone as they walked in. He busied himself in scrolling through Race’s secret meme account as Jojo perched himself on one of the tables, eyes trained on the TV.  
“Ah, there it is.”  
Albert looked up, his gaze travelling from Jojo to the TV, where a shot of a crime scene was being filmed. Sure enough, a covered dead body adorned with the death symbol was located in the alleyway Race and Albert had been beside. Albert winced, looking away as flashes of Elmer’s body streaked through his mind. He pursed his lips, blinking rapidly as he focused back in on his phone. Jojo must have noticed his reaction, because a moment later, the TV turned off.  
“Wanna play cards?” He asked lightly, holding up a spare deck.  
Albert clicked off his phone, slipping it into his back pocket and commending himself for maintaining steady hands.  
He shrugged, “Sure. Are you gonna be as annoying as Race?”  
Jojo laughed, already moving to deal out the cards, “No, I’m actually pleasant to play with.”  
Albert chuckled as he sat down, pulling his cards towards himself and propping his elbows onto the table, “Oh, thank god.”  
They played several rounds of Rummy, making comfortable conversation as they did so. Albert felt himself relaxing more in this time with Jojo than he had in all his time in Empire. Jojo was easy-going and collected. His calm stature was contagious, momentarily lifting the permanent pit of dread in Albert’s stomach.  
But the pit quickly returned when a new voice sounded through the rec room.  
“Albert, may I speak with you a moment?”   
Albert blew a breath through his nose, trying to dampen the fresh anger that ignited within him as he turned around.  
“What, Davey?” he glared, trying to hold his ground against the other man, but Davey seemed entirely unphased, the usual dullness in his eyes as strong as ever.  
“Come with me,” he beckoned to Albert, but he made no move to get up. Davey let out an exasperated sigh, “Just for a minute, then you can go back to whatever you’re doing.”  
Albert remained sitting and Davey took a step further into the room, leaning against the wall.   
“I need to know the details of what happened in Queens today and Race is not in a position to answer questions about it right now,” He fixed Albert with a pointed look, “and you were the only other person that was there, so I’m asking you.”  
“Fine.”  
Davey lead him to the entrance room and sat down. Albert stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he watched Davey.  
“You may sit,” Davey said, linking his hands in front of him.  
“Nah,” Albert said, “I’m good.”  
Davey studied him for a moment, a judgemental eye scanning his features, “Very well,” he sighed, defeated, “Talk me through what happened today. Start with the trade.”  
Albert rolled his eyes to the ceiling, keeping his gaze aimed upward as he spoke in a monotone voice.  
“So, we got to the trade place on time. I think it was a like furniture store or some shit. Anyway, we made the trade with the guy at the counter-“  
“Did you catch a name?” Davey inquired.   
“Uhh,” Albert sifted through his memory, trying to recall who they had met with, “Trevor, I think.”  
Davey nodded, motioning for him to continue.   
“So after we did the trade, we went to some, like, convenience store? And on our way out, we heard shit going down-“  
“Shit going down?” Davey pushed, “That’s vague. What specifically did you hear?”  
“Shouting, uh, yeah,” Albert said, “Some guy tried to con some Prospect guys I guess. I think I heard ‘em accuse him of tryna give oregano instead of weed,” he paused, thinking, “Idiot move by the way. They don’t even look the same.”  
“Albert, continue.”  
“Sorry, sorry, anywho,” He shook his head, getting himself back on track, “So one guy, who, by the way, Race later told me was Spot Conlon-“  
Davey choked, “Pardon!?”  
“Shut up, let me finish,” Albert waved a hand, “He told another dude to ‘take care of him’ and they shot him, so yeah. We ran after that.”  
Davey blinked, dumbfounded. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to formulate words, “Did, um, did they see you?”  
Albert shook his head, “Didn’t even know we were there,” he said, “only dude who saw us in Queens was the one we traded with.”  
Davey seemed satisfied with this answer, “okay, good.”  
XXX  
Race hurried up the stairs, the world blanking out as he stumbled towards the bathrooms. The only thing he could hear was his heart hammering in his chest, thudding relentlessly against his rib cage.   
He’d kept it together all the way back from Queens, narrowly dodging Albert’s prodding questions and concerned glances.   
He was fine. Really, he was. He just hadn’t heard a certain, distinguishable Brooklyn accent in a while and he wasn’t necessarily equipped to deal with it.   
Because last time he’d heard that voice, everything had gone to shit. Last time he’d heard that voice, his sanity was challenged; his morals were compromised. His life as he knew it was-  
He shook his head, willing for the wave of memories to leave his goddamn mind. Distantly, his knee twanged and he reached down to rub it, his hand grazing over the rough scar underneath his jeans.   
“Damnit, Spot,” He muttered as the old wound throbbed with each heartbeat, reminding him painfully of that god-awful day.   
He lowered himself to the floor of the bathroom, scooting so that he was leaning against the wall. He only just remembered to lock the door. He couldn’t handle anyone intruding right now.   
He closed his eyes, using the hand that wasn’t holding his knee to scratch at his throat. He knew from experience that this was something he’d just have to ride out. There was no easy or quick way of dealing with this.   
He grit his teeth, trying in vain to keep the more brutal visions out of his brain. But it wasn’t working.   
With a gasp of defeat, he lost himself to his head.   
XXX  
“We need to discuss him.”  
Jack pointed at Albert as he entered the dining hall. It was later in the evening and Davey had taken to cooking dinner, which consisted of packaged ramen and fruit snacks. Cooking was apparently not his forte.   
Albert looked up from his bowl, slurping the noodles into his mouth loudly. He shrunk in his seat slightly, feeling overwhelmed by the new attention that was on him. He didn’t like being around the other guys without Race. He felt out of place.   
But Race hadn’t reappeared since their return, leaving Albert to mill about solo.   
“What about me?” Albert asked, not managing to keep the nerves out of his voice.   
Jack ignored him, keeping his attention on Davey, “Another ‘Less is More” sign popped up today over by Bleecker Street,” he scrubbed an anxious hand down his face, “Whatever Prospect’s planning is in full swing and we needa put a stop to it sooner rather than later, which means-“  
“-Albert’s going to have to get in on their game now.” Davey finished.   
“Exactly.” Jack slumped down in one of the chairs, stress written in his stature, “But how we’re gonna do that is the real question.”  
Albert busied himself back in his food, plucking a fruit snack out of its bag. As much as he hated being talked about as if he weren’t there, he knew better than to interrupt.   
“Hmmm,” Davey tapped his fingers against the table, his eyes wandering as he brainstormed options, “The trouble is, how can we get Spot to trust him? His judgment is much better and he’s much less persuadable than Race.”  
Jack clicked his tongue, frustrated, “I know. That’s the problem.”  
“We could have him save good ole Spottie’s life.”  
All three of them jumped as Race spoke from the doorway.   
“Racer,” Jack exclaimed, “doing okay?”  
Race avoided the question, walking further into the room and joining them at the table. He sat down, kicking his feet up and crossing his arms at his chest, his usual cockiness in full swing. The faint redness in his eyes was noticeable, but everyone had enough tact to pretend like they didn’t see it.   
“Think about it,” Race continued, “We put Conlon in a compromising situation. Break him down. Make it hard for him to keep his cool, let alone fight for himself. Then, bam! Al here swoops in and saves the day,” Race smirked triumphantly, “After that, Spot owes him one. We frame Albert to be a long time customer of theirs. Make it seem like he wants in on their gang. There’s his repayment right there,” when he was met with blank stares he groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically, “Membership to the gang. That’s the repayment, come on guys. Keep up!”  
Davey nodded slowly, mulling over Race’s idea, “That’s actually really smart,” he concluded, “But how do we break him down.”  
“His dad,” Race said immediately.  
Jack looked up, bewildered, “What?”  
“His dad was Prospect’s leader before him,” Race said, “Awful guy. Fucked Spot up a lot-”  
“How do you know all this?” Albert interjected.  
Race plowed on, only acknowledging Albert’s question in his eyes, which sparked nearly imperceptibly, “He was also targeted by a bunch of guys in the city. Had a lot of unfinished business and bad ties. People were after him all the time while he was alive.”  
Davey was staring intensely at the table, his fingers drumming faster by the second. Suddenly, he snapped, his back straightening as the gears in his head seemed to click into place.  
“We use Spot as a target of vengeance,” there was a weird excitement in his tone.  
Race pointed at him, grinning, “exactly.”  
“Now we just need some guys to pose as old enemies,” Jack said,   
Race was quiet for a moment, his eyebrows scrunched together, “Uh,” he shook his head, thinking, “I might know some people? Maybe?”  
“Okay,” Davey said. They all stared at Race, waiting for him to continue, “Well, who?”   
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I got distracted,” Race said, sheepishly, “Right, so these two dudes, you might know them, Oscar and Morris Delancey?”  
Jack’s eyes widened in recognition at the names, “The two dudes that, like, were arrested a few years back?”  
“That’s them,” Race said, “They owe me one for saving their skin from some bulls a while ago. I could get them on board.”  
Davey turned to Albert, “You ready?”  
Albert swallowed, sucking in a breath. Jack, Race, and Davey were all looking at him expectantly and he tried his best to hold down the anticipation that had spread through his limbs. He could feel adrenaline coursing through his body, spreading like a drug through his veins. He was really doing this.  
“Yeah,” he breathed, “Yeah, I am.”  
Race’s beam was the first thing he registered.  
XXX  
Albert sat at the edge of his bed, half-heartedly shoving clothes into his bag. The nervous excitement for what would be occurring in less than 24 hours had worn off, leaving him wary. He had no idea what exactly he was looking for, let alone enough knowledge to recognize clues if he sees them.   
Besides, he had barely assimilated to one branch of gang life. The thought of having to grasp a whole other gang was jarring. He sighed, zipping up his bag and slipping his charger into the side pocket.  
“Hey, I gotcha something.”  
He looked over to see Race hovering at the mouth of his section, one hand behind his back.   
The corners of his mouth quirked up, “Ooo, didn’t peg you for a gift-giving kinda guy.”  
Race rolled his eyes, taking Albert’s words as an invitation to sit on the foot of his bed, “Shut up, it’s a practical gift.”  
Curiously, Albert scooted closer to Race, “What is it?”  
Albert’s mouth dropped open as Race placed a switchblade on the sheets of his cot. The blade itself was a glinting gold color, while the handle had a sleek wooden finish. His name was embossed on the bottom of the blade, the letters barely visible unless it was held up against light. As terrifying as it was, it was beautiful.  
Albert reached forward, taking the knife in shaking hands. He turned it over a few times, getting a feel for the weight. He’d never handled a true weapon before and there was something oddly invigorating about it.   
“I know a guy that does engravings scary quick,” Race admitted, pulling Albert out of his trance, “Thought I’d get you a little something to tie to you us while you’re gone, since we can’t getcha tatted up until you come back…”  
The ‘if you come back’ that hung in the air was suffocating and Albert’s gripped tightened around the blade. He couldn’t let himself go there now. He was at a point of no return, he may as well go into it with confidence.  
“Besides,” Race said, cutting through the tension, “You’ll need something to defend yourself and I don’t have time to get you comfy with a gun.”  
Albert looked up at him, flicking closed the knife and stowing it under his pillow, “Thanks, man,” he smiled.  
“Yeah,” Race said, “‘Course,” He moved so that he was laying down on the cot, feet still on the floor, “How are you feeling about all this?”  
Albert shrugged, mirroring Race’s position, “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “Scared? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”  
Race glanced at him sideways, “Anything to do with that dumb message they’ve been leaving.”  
“Well, obviously,” Albert scoffed, “But what if they’re talking about it and I don’t even realize ‘cause I’m not in on shit.”  
Race looked back towards the ceiling, his eyes scanning over the catwalks, “How about this,” he said, “We can meet up somewhere every night and you can tell me everything you heard during the day,” He allowed the words to sink in and Albert considered them.  
“How will I even get out of their base or whatever each night?”   
“Spot sleeps early,” Race said and Albert could only briefly wonder how he knew that before he kept talking, “and no one notices the fire escape on the third floor in the back.”  
The puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place and a chill ran down Albert’s spine, “holy fuck, you were-”  
“Don’t.” Race said, his voice low and his eyes harsh as he looked at Albert.  
Albert held eye contact for a moment, before giving up, “Right, okay.”  
“Anyway,” Race said, his tone lightening again, “we can see if those meet-ups work. That way, everyone’s on the same page.”  
“Okay,” Albert agreed. This arrangement instilled a strange amount of comfort into him and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Being in Prospect was bound to be one of the hardest things he’d ever have to do, but going through each day knowing he could see someone he’d unironically begun to associate with safety allowed him some solace.  
Race smiled, “It’s a plan.”  
XXX  
The sun was harsh, beating down unceasingly on Albert’s back. He shifted his backpack strap from one shoulder to the other, grimacing as he felt sweat drip down his neck. It was weirdly warm for a Winter day, the temperature pushing into the high 50s. Large crowds of people were outside that day, no doubt taking advantage of the freak heat wave to walk their dogs properly and take their kids out to Central Park.  
Albert lingered near the side street in which the plan was supposed to be executed, casually sipping a slurpee as he leaned against the wall. He was facing away from the street, but his ears were straining to listen for Spot’s distinct voice. He glanced down at his watch. 3:04. Six minutes until Spot was to show up, expecting a trade.  
Race had stayed at the Bowery, offering Albert nothing more than a quick hug and a good luck banana before he’d rushed off, leaving Albert to deal with his nerves alone. Jack had traveled with him only as far as the subway station, filling him in on the known members of Prospect along the way. They’d met the Delancey Brothers at the station, only talking to them briefly before Jack left, leaving them to follow through with the plan.  
Albert had subtly slipped into a 7/11 along the way, allowing the Delanceys to walk ahead and prepare for their portion of procedure. But his drink tasted sour against his tongue as anxiety threatened to engulf him. He wasn’t ready.  
He shook his head, taking another sip. Yes, he was. He had to be.  
“Who the fuck are you two,” Spot’s thick Brooklyn accent cut into Albert’s perception and he sucked in a breath, inching closer to the side street, “I’m supposed to be trading with some chick.”  
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Conlon,” one of the brothers, Oscar maybe? Snarled.  
Albert heard a gun cock, “The fuck are you talking about?” Spot snapped.  
“See, that little daddy of yours fucked up our lives when he was around,” Morris said, his voice taunting.  
“Got our sorry asses arrested,” Oscar added on.  
Albert knew this was a lie. Race told him that they’d gotten arrested for drug possession and vandalism, but it sounded convincing enough.  
“And see, we only just got out of jail,” Morris said.  
“And we wanted to get some payback.”  
“But when we went looking for Papa Conlon we found that, oh no! He was gone.”  
“So we figured we’d just go for next of kin.”  
Albert had to give them props. They sounded really fucking creepy.  
“What my fucking father did was his business, not mine,” Spot ground out, but Albert didn’t miss the faint tremor in his voice. Race was right. He was scared- threatened.  
“Oh, we know,” Morris mused, “But I’m sure you deserve this, too.”  
The sound of a punch echoed and Albert heard Spot grunt in pain. It sounded like one of the brothers had gotten his face.  
“I don’t know what your fucking problem is.” Spot sounded weak. Something Albert would have deemed impossible for him.  
Spot wasn’t graced with an answer as another punch rang out, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground.   
“Do you miss your daddy?” Oscar growled, “Do you miss him doing the dirty work? Or has the rush of murder grown on you.”  
“Stop,” Spot panted, “Please.”  
“Begging now, are we?” Morris laughed, “Didn’t know the King of Brooklyn had it in him to beg.”  
Another gun cocked and Albert pursed his lips. This was his cue.  
“Please, I’m sorry my dad fucked up,” Spot pleaded, “I’m not him.”  
“You keep telling yourself that.”  
Albert took a deep breath, steeling himself. It was now or never.  
He rounded the corner, giving himself a running start before he barreled over Oscar, who had his gun pointed at Spot’s face. Spot was cowering on the ground with hands help up in front of his face, eyes squeezed shut.  
Albert fumbled with Oscar for a moment, landing a few hits in before spitting at him, “Get out of here before I call the police.”  
Morris and Oscar made a beeline for the streets, leaving Albert alone with Spot. Albert couldn’t help but be surprised at Spot’s appearance. He was significantly shorter than he had imagined, sporting a leather jacket similar to Race’s. He was no doubt well built, his muscles bulging almost obnoxiously through the sleeves.   
The most notable thing about him, though, were the converse he was wearing. It didn’t seem entirely on brand for a notoriously tough gang leader to be wearing converse and Albert bit back the urge to laugh.  
He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans, rubbing off the nervous sweat and dust, before holding it out for Spot. Spot opened his eyes slowly, staring at Albert cautiously. He made no move to take his hand and for a scary moment, Albert thought he saw recognition in his eyes. But it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared.  
Spot stood on his own accord and stepped back, clearing his throat, “thanks,” he grunted.  
Albert nodded, “No problem,” he swallowed, trying to embody Race’s unwavering and convincing confidence, “You’re Spot Conlon, right?”  
Spot’s head whipped up and he reached for his gun, only to let out a frustrated growl when he realized that it was on the ground, several feet away after being knocked out of his hand during the brawl.  
“Relax,” Albert said, trying to sound nonchalant, “I’ve just been one of Prospect’s customers for a while.”  
“What, and you want some drugs or something?” Spot spat.  
“No,” Albert said, lifting his chin defiantly. He ignored the voices in his head, telling him to run. Get out of there, “I want in.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shit goes down: the chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: gunshots, death, violence, drugging. tread lightly

He pulled his hood up further, bowing his head to the cold Winter air. His hand grasped the rubber handle of his crutch tightly, palm slipping as it shifted under him. He watched his feet, waiting until the road slanted upward, a familiar bridge slipping into view.  
Another hooded figure was waiting by the railing at the start of the bridge, the bold tattoo that was brandished on his bicep glinting in the moonlight. Crutchie’s eyes scanned the familiar symbol, the sharp lines of the tattooed bridge almost exactly replicating the real thing behind them.  
The other figure looked up, hood falling off his head as he stepped forward, beckoning for Crutchie to join him.  
Crutchie reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He silently handed one to the shorter man, offering his lighter as well. They leaned against the railing, watching the view of Brooklyn in the distance. The city at night was an eerie kind of beautiful. The sky was still bright from light reflecting off the buildings, the water underneath the bridge flowed ominously, the black, inky waves threatening to engulf one’s mind. The sounds of the city could still be heard at full volume, only barely masking the horrifying secrets it also held.  
“Did you hurt him bad?” Crutchie asked, smoke blowing out of his mouth and getting caught in the cold, Winter air.  
“Mmm, only as much as necessary.” The other man said.  
“What should we do about it?”  
The man twitched the cigarette between his fingers, “I think we need to do it. Tonight.”  
Crutchie nodded, “Okay. I’m on it,” He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, tossing it over the side and watching as it was drowned in the darkness. He pushed off the railing, adjusting his crutch back underneath his armpit, “Take care of yourself, Conlon.”  
Spot saluted, placing the cigarette back into his mouth, “M’counting on you, Charlie.”

Earlier

“I want in.”  
Albert forced himself not to look away from Spot’s intense glare. He could feel the handle of his switchblade pressing against the small of his back and his arms ached to reach back and grab it- arm himself in some way. But it didn’t seem like any sudden movement from him would work in his favor as far as Spot went.  
Spot hadn’t moved, his eyes trained solely on Albert’s. Albert resisted the urge to shrink in on himself. He had to maintain his act. He couldn’t crack now, but Spot looked like he was reading him like a book.  
Could he see through him? Did he know?  
Suddenly, Spot took a step forward into Albert’s space, eyes squinting further as his gaze flicked to Albert’s hair. Albert clenched his jaw, trying not to shiver as Spot observed him.  
“Higgins.” Spot muttered, only barely audible.  
Albert’s eyes widened for a moment as cold fear shot through his entire body,  
“What?”  
His answer was a fist to the temple. The world seemed to silence for a moment and he was barely able to recover before he was hit again. Then, everything went black.  
XXX  
Sounds returned first. Voices echoed somewhere close to him, making his head throb more intensely than it had before.  
He lifted his head, wincing as a stinging pain traveled through his temple to the rest of his head. It felt like someone was poking his nerves with a white hot rod. He groaned, fighting the urge to be sick as pain moved through him in waves, making his muscles ache.  
He was definitely concussed. Brilliant.  
He cracked open his eyes, only to find it didn’t make a difference. It was pitch fucking black. He assessed himself, taking note that his hands were bound behind him and his ankles were tied together.  
His back was against a wall. Or what he assumed was a wall. He couldn’t really tell what anything was.  
His face felt sticky and he licked his lips, blood seeping onto his tongue. He gagged and spit aimlessly, trying to rid his mouth of the metallic taste. Apparently, his nose was bleeding. What the fuck happened?  
Light flooded whatever room he was in and he flinched, turning his head away from the source. Footsteps approached him and he folded in on himself as his arms started to tremor. He was going to die. He was literally going to die.  
The person crouched in front of him and Albert could feel their eyes boring into his being. He whimpered involuntarily as cold fingers made contact with his jaw, turning his head to face his captor.  
“Open your eyes, bitch.” Spot’s unmistakable Brooklyn accent sent shockwaves of pain through his head.  
Albert shook his head, “Fuck you.”  
His cheek stung as Spot slapped him and he cried out, his headache intensifying almost impossibly.  
“Do as I say.” Spot growled, tugging the hair on the back of Albert’s head sharply, making him hiss in pain.  
Albert forced a chuckle, gritting his teeth, “Getting kinky on me, huh, Conlon?” he managed, his voice sounding strained.  
His neck cricked as he was jolted forward, the cool metal of what Albert presumed was a gun handle pressed to the back of his head. He fought the urge to vomit as waves of excruciating nausea rolled through his body.  
“Who are you.” It was a demand, not a question, whispered close to his ear. Spot’s breath was hot and smelled distinctly like cigarettes and Albert winced, scrunching his nose involuntarily.  
“Mmmm, your mom,” Albert said, his words looping together groggily.  
There was no reply for a moment, then Albert heard Spot growl, the noise sending chills up his spine. He tried to maintain eye contact as Spot forced him to his feet, watching him with a wolflike stare briefly, before sticking his gun between his teeth and placing his hands on Albert’s biceps. Albert held his breath, not daring to move as Spot began to pat him down. He felt down his arms, then moved his hands to Albert’s chest, patting vigorously. Albert bit his tongue, refraining from making a crude, biting comment about their current closeness. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be well received.  
Spot turned him around slowly, starting the process over at his shoulder-blades. With a jolt, the presence of his switchblade at the small of his back returned to his cognizance and he fought the urge to tense up. Spot was going to find it and take it and then he’d have lost his last bit of security. The one thing linking him to safety.  
Spot’s hand landed on the handle of the blade and he let out a small, triumphant, ‘aha’. Albert squeezed his eyes shut as Spot lifted his shirt and took the blade out, his cold hands ghosting horribly against his skin.  
“Jesus Christ,” Spot muttered and Albert couldn’t help but turn around. Instead of pocketing the knife as Albert had expected, Spot was squinting at the blade where Albert’s name was engraved. He held it closer to his face, recognition flitting through his eyes. Albert watched him, confused.  
“Where’d you get this,” Spot demanded, suddenly, “Who made this?”  
Albert shook his head, “I-I-”  
“Nevermind,” Spot spat, “I know what I need to know.”  
A moment later, a crack echoed through his brain as Spot slammed the hilt of the gun into his head and once again, the world darkened.  
Time passed at an indiscernable pace. Albert felt himself shifting unsteadily in and out of consciousness. People were discussing him nearby and he could make out bits and pieces of hushed conversation, but none of it made much sense.  
At one point, he found himself able to stay awake for longer than a few harried seconds. He kept his eyes closed, the pain from his evident concussion making it difficult to do much besides sit solemnly and pray for his rescue. Oh well, at least he wasn’t dead.  
People were speaking hurriedly now- desperately. Albert could make out Spot’s angry voice, rising above the rest. It sounded as if he were organizing something, spitting demands from person to person and only being answered by mumbles of ‘yes, boss’ or ‘you got it’.  
But the most gut clenching, perhaps, was a command, hissed in a harsh, yet loud whisper sending jolts of cold fear through Albert’s body.  
“Get Crutchie over here, I need to speak with him.”  
Albert swallowed, trying not to panic as the possibilities of what Crutchie had to do with this wormed into his brain and seized hold of his lungs. He had to warn someone, he had to-  
Ow.  
He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay awake and think of an escape. But it seemed as if fate had other plans as he was pulled under once more.

12 hours later

Jack sat with his legs propped up, absentmindedly cleaning his gun as he sat in the rec room, watching the local news. Davey was upstairs, taking a nap and Race had gone out to meet Albert to discuss any further Prospect information he might have gained, so Jack found himself alone in his relaxation. A luxury that was rare to find in Empire.  
“Mind if I join you?” Jack looked up to see Les stroll in and take a seat in one of the chairs next to him, propping his legs up to mirror him.  
Jack chuckled, “I guess not,” he said, placing his gun down on the table in front of him and picking up a pack of cards that lay nearby, “Gin rummy?”  
Les shrugged, “Sure.”  
Jack dealt out the cards, mentally preparing to be beaten by Les, who was scarily good at most card games. He’d gone on a rampage a few years back, claiming that he was going to beat Race in every card game known to man at least once, and in his endeavors, he’d gained great skill.  
“How’s Albert?” Les asked, accepting his pile of cards and looking up at Jack.  
Jack took his own pile and hummed noncommittally, “dunno, Racer’s out checking on him right now.”  
“You think he got into Prospect alright?”  
Jack sighed, making a questioning gesture with his hands, “We can hope so.”  
“Jack, I need to talk to you,” Jack and Les glanced over to see a breathless Race, standing in the doorway to the rec room, bouncing nervously on his toes, “Now.”  
Jack pursed, setting down his cards, “What’s wrong?”  
Race’s gaze passed over Les briefly, “Alone.”  
Jack twitched his nose and placed down his cards, standing, “Alright, one sec squirt,” he said, ruffling Les’ hair.  
Les squawked indignantly, “Stop calling me squirt!”  
Race led him out of the room and a couple paces down the hallway until they were right in front of the drug storage room. He turned towards Jack, the worry in his eyes evident up close.  
“Something didn’t go right with Al,” he said, the words coming out rushed.  
Jack’s stomach dropped, “What? What do you mean? How do you know?”  
Race ran an anxious hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. It was obvious that he was fighting the urge to work himself up.  
“I, uh, I went to where me and Al planned to meet up, over on Frankfort Street by the bridge and he wasn’t there-”  
“Okay, don’t panic yet, maybe-”  
“Let me finish,” Race continued, “he wasn’t there, so I decided to wait for a bit, because, you know, sometimes shit takes time, but it was getting a lot later than when we had planned so I decided to look around a bit and I found another one.”  
Jack cocked his head, “Another one what?”  
Race let out a frustrated noise, “Another ‘Less is More’ thing! It was fresh, too.”  
Jack’s eyes widened, “Shit.”  
“Yeah,” Race grimaced, “Seemed a little too coincidental that a new one popped up right where I was supposed to see him.”  
Jack leaned against the wall, overwhelmed, “We gotta tell Davey,” he said after a moment.  
Race nodded, breathing out a sigh, “I’m scared for him, I-” he clicked his tongue, looking at Jack, “Prospect can get real bad...Spot can get real bad,” he averted his gaze, trailing off.  
Jack examined him for a moment, concern pooling in his stomach, “Hey, we’ll get Al out, okay?”  
Race didn’t answer, haunted eyes trained on the ground. Jack reached forward, tapping his chin.  
“Okay?” He repeated once Race met his gaze.  
Race shifted his jaw, “Okay.”  
XXX  
Albert stared at his feet, scuffing his shoes across the carpet underneath him. Sometime in his unconsciousness, he had been moved to what appeared to be Spot’s office. His wrists, ankles, and torso were bound tightly, holding him to a small wooden chair. Upon waking, he’d tried for a few feeble minutes to free himself, but to no avail. Whoever had tied the rope knew what they were doing.  
The office was small and neat and somehow nothing and exactly like what Albert had expected. There was a singular mahogany table in the middle of the room, a tall, leather office chair pushed neatly in behind it.  
Everything in the room was carefully placed, as though Spot had put a lot of thought into the layout of his room. Nothing was out of line. Pencils were pristinely sharpened and placed eraser-up in a shiny, glass pencil holder. The rug was dust free and perfectly centered. The two bookshelves that stood opposite each other at one end of the room were stacked end to end with books, which seemed to fit almost too well on the shelves themselves.  
The meticulousness of the room seemed almost out of character for Spot, not that Albert would know. But he wouldn’t have pegged him for a neat-freak kind of guy. The obvious attention to detail sent a shiver down Albert’s spine.  
He scanned the room, unsure exactly what he was searching for. Something out of order, perhaps. Something to clue him into the enigma that was Spot and Prospect.  
However, nothing caught his eye. The room was too damn cookie-cutter to hold any glaring secrets. Which, admittedly, was a clever strategy. Anything that could be of importance was hiding in plain sight.  
But Albert was in too much pain to look too hard. He sighed loudly, allowing his head to drop lazily to the side, pain surging through his temples once more.  
He was about to close his eyes briefly when a small glint of polished wood on Spot’s desk perked his attention.  
A wave of cold washed down his legs as he realized that it was his switchblade, perfectly unbroken. Something was propped haphazardly next to it, the only visible attribute of the unknown object being a large crack in its glossy, dark green exterior.  
He squinted, trying to get a better look. He could see something etched into the side of the other item, but its distance from him made it impossible to make out.  
He blew out a breath, steeling himself for a moment before bracing his feet on the floor. With a grunt, he shifted his body weight forward, using the momentum to move the chair a few inches towards the desk. The wooden legs scraped the ground loudly and Albert winced, holding still  
for a moment before heading another few inches forward onto the carpet.  
Albert hummed triumphantly, pleased with himself. His view of the desk was unobscured now and he leaned forward, curiosity peaking when he realized that the object next to his knife was a lighter. As his eyes focused, Albert realized that the etching on the handle was a faded ‘R’. The curve of the lettering was oddly familiar and as his gaze shifted sideways onto his knife, a small gasp left him.  
The lettering style was the exact same.  
He frowned, his bottom lip worrying its way between his teeth as he tried to work out why that was unsettling. He blinked a few times, lips parted slightly as he continued to inspect the lighter. The damage was clearer up close, showing that the crack on the handle stemmed from a large chip out of the metal where the green plastic met the metal lighting mechanism. It looked like someone had hit the lighter against something hard. Or thrown the damn thing.  
A pair of footsteps echoed outside the door and Albert tore his gaze away from the lighter, wishing for a moment that his hands were free so that he could grab his knife. Briefly, he considered hopping his chair back to where he’d been left in case Spot grew suspicious as to why he’d moved, but the thought left him as the door to Spot’s office opened.  
Albert winced, bracing himself. Though, he was unsure as to what exactly he was bracing himself for. Spot soaking him again, probably.  
“Ah, so you’re the brat who tried ta trick us.”  
A voice Albert didn’t recognize rang out and he opened his eyes. Across the room from him stood two men, both sporting sleeveless henleys. The Prospect branding was visible on each of their biceps, tattooed non-discreetly into the skin facing outwards. The one on the right looked to be around Albert’s height with longer, brown hair that curved at the nape of his neck. He had a wide face, a permanent scowl set on his features. Albert wrinkled his nose, feeling slightly intimidated by his piercing stare. The other guy stood a fair few inches taller than the first, muscles bulging through his shirt. He had tan skin, his beady eyes glaring at Albert. His hair was jet black and looked a good bit greasier than the other guy’s, giving him a rat-like composure.  
Albert’s gaze traveled from the first guy to the second, hesitating a moment before flashing a smile, “Hey there, gents.”  
Neither looked amused.  
“I can’t fuckin’- ugh, why’d Boss nail us with the annoyin’ one?” The first guy complained.  
“Dunno Bumlets, but I already wanna punch him,” The second guy said, eyes shifting between Albert’s, “Whatever, he’ll be outta commission soon.”  
Albert’s smile faltered, uneasiness leaving a vile taste in his mouth. He vaguely recognized his voice and with a jolt he realized that this was the guy Spot had been with when he and Race had gone to Queens. He didn’t look anything like Albert had expected.  
Bumlets strode over to him, pulling a knife from his boot and bending down. Albert sucked in a breath as the ropes that previously bound him down were swiftly cut away, allowing blood to flow normally through his body. He wiggled his fingers, willing the tingling feeling to go away.  
Bumlets grasped the back of his collar, yanking him to his feet, “Got the cuffs, Hotshot?”  
Hotshot grunted, producing a rusty pair of handcuffs from the inside of his jacket.  
“Right ‘ere,” He said as Bumlets pushed Albert forward.  
Hotshot grabbed hold of Albert’s bicep easily, keeping one hand firmly on his arm as he secured the handcuffs around his wrists, locking them tightly. Albert tried to jerk away, hissing when the sharp metal cut into his skin.  
“No use in fightin’ too hard,” Bumlets sneered, pushing past Albert and Hotshot towards the door, “You’re outnumbered.”  
Albert swallowed, jaw shifting as he was lead out of the room, Hotshot still holding him firmly, “Is there any point in asking where you’re taking me?”  
Both men ignored him, pushing him through the dark building and down several flights of stairs. As they ventured on, Albert looked around, noting the dinginess of the place. It was significantly grimier than the Bowery, the damp, cool air giving it a dirty feel. The ground was coated in dust and grit, and there were several places in which Albert swore he saw bloodstains. It smelled of mildew, causing Albert to gag if he breathed in too deep. As they ventured to the main level, the corridors seemed to darken even more and Albert ground his teeth, trying in vain to remain calm.  
“Did boss leave the truck ‘round back?” Hotshot asked, coming to an abrupt halt near a door.  
Bumlets nodded, fishing what looked to be a car key out of his pocket, “All parked an’ ready for us to ride.”  
Hotshot hummed, jerking open the door and thrusting Albert into the night. For a moment, the grip on Albert’s arm vanished, but before he could make a move, a bag was being placed over his head. He tried to duck away, only for his hair to be yanked harshly underneath the bag.  
“Behave,” Bumlets snarled, knotting the bag in the back to keep it in place.  
“Mmm, but that’s boring,” Albert said, aiming for a cocky tone, but wincing when his voice cracked slightly. Why couldn’t he have Race’s poker face?  
His heart twanged briefly as he thought of the other boy. It had only been a day, but already the plan was going to complete shit. His fingers itched for his switchblade, the one thing meant to ground him to some semblance of security. A vague part of him longed for the night previous, when he and Race had shared that moment on his cot- when things were still safe and calm.  
He felt himself being dragged again, trying his best not to trip as they descended down a small slope. Albert felt the ground under him turn to pavement and a moment later, the sound of a car door opening came from beside him. He tensed his shoulders, sensing what was about to happen.  
“Behave.” Bumlets repeated, roughly shoving him against the car.  
Albert grunted as his shin made hard contact with the metal step that led to the backseat. He stayed still, knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of this, but still refusing to make it easy on his captors.  
“Climb in the goddamn car,” Hotshot snapped, stomping harshly on his heels.  
Albert grimaced, “Can’t climb anywhere while my hands are cuffed behind me. Is everyone in Prospect so damn kinky? Ya know earlier, Spot-”  
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Bumlets cursed, gripping him by the elbow and boosting him upwards.  
Albert smirked to himself as he settled into the backseat. As screwed as he was, he was getting a rise out of them. And that felt pretty damn good.  
He heard the door slam next to him and he rested his head against the headrest behind him, trying not to let the claustrophobic feeling of the bag suffocating him consume him. He stretched his neck, wincing when he felt the joints crack.  
The car started and Albert frowned, “Y’all better be buckled up there. Someone in this car has got to conform to the New York safety measures and I sure ain’t.”  
Hotshot sighed, “Why can’t we shoot him now again?”  
“Because Conlon’ll kill us if we get his car bloody,” Bumlets grumbled, “Usin’ his car at all has got us on thin ice.”  
The rest of the drive was spent in silence, save for the staticky hum of the radio playing old rock music. They drove for what could have been hours and as time stretched on, Albert grew more anxious. He’d known their intentions from the start, but the reality of the situation seemed to settle on him in sickening waves. He wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.  
Last time ever driving through New York and I can’t even enjoy the view, he thought cynically, huffing a laugh, although his heart was in his throat.  
The truck screeched to a halt and Albert held his breath as Hotshot and Bumlets exited. Cold, night air gusted at him as his door was opened and he was pulled out. He was guided on numb legs for a few minutes, only noting the change in the ground underneath his feet when his shoes began to echo on concrete. They walked for a few more feet before he was shoved downwards, knees hitting the ground roughly. The bag was yanked off his head and he involuntarily whimpered as his eyes crossed, focusing on the barrel of a gun that hovered directly in front of him. Out of his peripheral, he could see mass amounts of scaffolding that seemed to climb to a high ceiling. Machines protruded from the wall in front of him, but they looked worn and broken. It was unclear exactly what kind of establishment he’d been brought to, but it seemed to be out of use.  
The smell was awful, as if something were rotting in the walls and Albert shivered, feeling strangely uncleansed.  
“So, we’re gonna kill ya obviously,” Hotshot said, his voice low and unnerving, “But there’s shit we gotta know from you first.”  
XXX  
Race sat on the floor of the rec room, leaning against a leg of one of the card tables. His arms were draped lazily around his knees as he tilted his head back, allowing it to thud into the cheap plastic tabletop.  
He was mad at himself, angry that he’d allow someone else to slip from between his fingers. Guilt pooled in his stomach, threatening to choke him. Every time he had something good, it fucked him in the face, usually resulting in people getting hurt or killed. Or both. Usually both.  
He blew out a breath, head rolling to the side to look towards the ratty book cabinet placed awkwardly in the corner. On the bottom shelf, stacks of old, dusty newspapers lay unceremoniously, rarely to be touched by anyone in the gang.  
It had been awhile since he’d sifted through it, only venturing to that dark corner when he needed a reminder of...who he was, but now seemed good a time as any.  
He scooted out from the card table, standing on sluggish limbs and crossing blindly to the bookshelf. He knelt down, tremoring hands reaching forward to extract a worn, obviously used newspaper article from the bottom of one of the piles.  
Swallowing, he unfolded it, blinking a few times as he scanned over the head of the article.  
Bombing at the Rockefeller Center Leaves 12 Dead. Culprit Still Unidentified.  
He breezed through the article, eventually focusing his gaze on the blurry picture on the bottom of the page, showcasing the damage. His eyes bore into the image, lips parting slightly as shouts echoed through his memories.  
He stayed frozen, losing himself in the picture until the shaking in his hands became too much and he closed his eyes, anxiety rising in his throat and slowly morphing to panic. He jerked, anticipation shooting through his arms as he crumpled the newspaper in both fists, feeling the wrinkled paper rip underneath his fingers.  
“Antonio?” Race opened his eyes, becoming acutely aware of himself once more, but failing to drop his tense position, “Are you alright?”  
Race rolled his shoulders, taking a measured breath before calmly dropping his arms to his sides, tossing the newspaper in a nearby trash can. He turned around, putting on a tight smile as he faced Davey.  
“M’great,” He said, knowing full well that neither of them were convinced.  
Davey eyed him warily, “Well, I’m ready to go when you are,” he busied himself in unbuttoning his his dress shirt sleeve and expertly folding it up, “Romeo is going to join us.”  
Race nodded, “Perfect, yeah, okay.”  
Davey studied him for another moment before briskly turning, “I’ll be by the stagedoor, be hasty.”  
Race watched him leave, taking another moment to compose himself before hurrying out of the room. He froze in the hallway, running a mental checklist of things he might need while retrieving Albert from whatever hot shit he was in. His knife was in his boot and his gun was resting snugly against the small of his back, held in place by the waistband of his jeans. His jacket was in the entrance hall and he’d stuck an extra pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket of that earlier. He was set.  
He nodded once to himself, erasing the last holds of unsteadiness from his mind as he crossed to the stage door, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on along the way.  
Davey, as promised, was standing just beside it, hands clasped behind his back. Romeo stood adjacent to him, fingers curled gingerly around his vape.  
He perked up when Race walked in, “Heya Higgins, want a hit?” He held up his vape, wiggling it in front of Race’s face.  
Race flinched, rearing back a little, “Mm, don’t do that and no, I’m good.”  
Romeo shrugged, “More for me,” he took a long drag, looking expectantly from Race to Davey, “Soooo, where’re we headed, boys?”  
“Excellent question,” He said, looking towards Race, “Race?”  
Race mulled it over for a moment, realizing that he hadn’t given this any actual thought. The prospects of Albert still being at The Refuge were slim, but that didn’t mean it was entirely off the table. He could still be in one of the holding rooms, but Spot never allowed the dirty work to be done directly in the building. It was his policy: never spill blood where you sleep. That didn’t lead to any clear answers, however. Spot had three designated execution spots, but they were well spread out between Queens and Brooklyn. If they tried to check all of them, it would be impossible to reach Albert in time. If there was even time left. Albert could already be dead.  
He shook his head, not allowing himself to go there yet. He had to stay focused.  
“Antonio…” Davey sounded like he was going to get impatient and Race shushed him.  
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he ran his tongue over his lower lip, trying to think of each of the locations of each spot.  
There was the Bergen Street platform, although Race doubted Spot’d chosen that spot. It was hard to access most of the time and he saved that area for more intense matters, ones that involved several people.  
The New York State Pavilion was the closest to The Refuge in relation to the others, but it was the most open of all of them. It was mainly used when someone needed to be taken care of quickly and Race doubted that they’d let Albert off without questioning.  
That left the Jumping Jack Powerplant. It was well secluded and a healthy distance from The Refuge- the perfect candidate for their predicted intentions with Albert.  
“I, uh,” Race ran a hand through his curls, “I think I have an idea, but it’s a bit of a drive,” he continued when Davey and Romeo raised their eyebrows, “It’s called the Jumping Jack Power Plant? I think that’s probably where Spot would want to take him.”  
Davey nodded slowly, no doubt trying to map out where that was in his head, “I think I know where you speak of. We can take the van,” he opened the door, ushering the other two out first, “Quickly, quickly.”  
“Shotgun!” Romeo called, hurrying towards where the van was parked in the back of the alley.  
Race glanced towards the skyscrapers in the distance, his heart thudding with anticipation, “M’coming Al. M’not gonna letcha down, too.”  
XXX  
Albert allowed a whine to escape his throat, “Is there, like, a world record or something for the most times a guy has had a gun pointed at his face in a short amount of time? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I could qualify.”  
Bumlets growled, rolling his eyes as he pressed the muzzle of his gun to his forehead, “Do ya ever shut up?”  
“Ya know? I get that a lot,” Albert said, tilting his head as he feigned deep thought, “I wonder if that’s, like, a social cue or something to reassess myself and change my ways.”  
Bumlets expression turned somehow more exasperated, “Can I please blow his brains out now?”  
“I fuckin’ wish,” Hotshot sighed, “But no.”  
“Mmm sadly,” Bumlets said, “Alright,” he dropped the gun momentarily and stepped behind Albert, pressing it to his neck instead, “I’ll start with the easy questions. What’s your name?”  
“Jennifer, Jen for short,” Albert said, keeping his tone light, “Though if we’re really close, or like, fucking or something, I’ll let you call me Jenny.”  
“Jesus Christ,” Hotshot groaned, stepping forward and slapping Albert across the face, “Your real name, smartass.”  
“Eat my ass,” Albert said lowly, squinting his eyes.  
Accepting the fact that they weren’t going to get a proper name out of him, Bumlets pressed on, raising the next question, “Are you associated at all with Empire?”  
Albert worked to keep the recognition from his eyes, “Your fuckin’ rival gang or whatever? No, my balls haven’t dropped enough for that yet.”  
Hotshot held eye contact for a moment before directing his stare at Bumlets. He suddenly looked down at Albert, something mischievous glinting in his eyes, like a kid who knew he was about to win Monopoly.  
“How about Antonio Higgins?”  
The gasp that left Albert’s lips was nearly inaudible, but Hotshot caught it. He leaned down, levelling himself with Albert.  
“Gotcha,” He grinned, hot breath blowing into Albert’s face, making him wince.  
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude to talk about people behind their backs?”  
Albert could have started crying as a familiar voice rang across the room. Hotshot’s face contorted into one of confusion and his head snapped to the side. The gun that had still been pressed to the back of Albert’s neck was removed and Albert managed to duck out of the way as the first round of shots were fired.  
He rolled backwards, eventually steadying himself and crawling on his hands and knees until he reached the far wall. Once he was out of the line of fire, he peered backwards, heart leaping into his chest as he watched Romeo shoot a bullet at Bumlets, hitting him square in the forehead. He recoiled and shut his eyes tight, covering his ears with his hands until the sounds of gunshots stopped.  
He opened his eyes again, avoiding looking at where Bumlets now lay and instead fixating on where Race was shoving Hotshot into the ground, knocking him out.  
“Motherfucker,” Race spat, “Never liked you.”  
He directed his attention towards Albert, chest heaving as the adrenaline drained from the room.  
“Fuckin’ hell,” Albert panted, “That was the most badass thing I’ve ever witnessed.”  
Race grinned, jogging over to him and helping him up. Before Albert could say anything else, he was being pulled into a bone-crushing hug.  
“Whoa, hey,” Albert floundered for a moment before wrapping his arms around Race’s torso, “Hey, buddy.”  
“Thank fuck you’re alive,” Race mumbled into his neck, “I don’t know what I woulda….just, thank fuck.”  
“Thank god you should up when you did,” Albert said, the reality of what almost happened hitting him full-force, “My god, I- wow.”  
“This is all very touching,” they broke apart at Davey’s voice, “But we really must get back to Empire.”  
“Right, right of course.”  
Race and Albert pulled away from one another, readjusting themselves and following Romeo and Davey out of the warehouse.  
XXX  
Jack ventured into the kitchen, crossing to the fridge and humming when nothing worthwhile sparked his appetite.  
“Hiya Jackie, you hungry?”  
Jack startled, turning on his heel, “Crutchie!” He exclaimed, taking in the sight of his best friend seated at the kitchen counter, mug in hand, “I didn’t see you there.”  
“Clearly,” Crutchie scoffed, gesturing to the seat next to him, “Care for tea?”  
Jack considered, “Yeah, actually, tea sounds good.”  
He padded around the counter, grabbing a spare mug along the way and perching himself next to Crutchie, gratefully accepting the tea he offered to pour for him.  
“So, where have you been?” Jack asked, warming his hands on the sides of the mug while he waited for his drink to cool down, “I haven’t seen you, like, all day.”  
Crutchie shrugged, “I’ve been out,” he reached out, grabbing the sugar bowl and offering it to Jack, “Sugar?”  
Jack shrugged, “Sure,” he agreed, spooning a fair amount into his tea and stirring.  
They sat in silence as Jack blew on his drink, taking a small sip and grimacing at it’s oddly bitter taste. He wrinkled his nose and took another sip before reaching for the sugar again.  
“Does this tea taste weird to you?” He asked, spooning a little more sugar into his mug. He became acutely aware of the sluggishness of his movements as he reached for another spoonful. All at once, his eyes turned foggy and suddenly, he couldn’t focus past the heaviness in his head.  
Crutchie gently reached out, coaxing the sugar spoon away from Jack’s grip, “Don’t take too much sugar, Jackie-boy.” Jack turned a horrified eye towards him, fighting to stay conscious.  
Crutchie’s face contorted into a cheshire-like grin, “After all, less is more.”  
Then, everything went black.  
XXX  
The drive back to The Bowery was spent in relieved silence, save for the pleasant thrum of Race’s ‘Relaxation n’ Stuff’ playlist. The city was oddly quiet, making the ride quick and painless. They pulled into the alleyway next to the theatre, parking the van towards the back. It was a bit tight climbing out of the car, but eventually, they were all trekking back towards the stage door.  
“Holy shit,” Romeo stopped abruptly, fixated on something on the wall opposite the stage door.  
Albert turned as well, gaze landing on a freshly spray painted message, scrawled largely across the brick. 

Les is More

“What the fuck,” Race said, voice frantic, “Why is it missing an S, what?”  
“My lord,” Davey had gone a sickly shade of pale, mouth slightly agape as he swayed on the spot.  
All at once, the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place and Romeo cursed, “Davey, where was Les before we went to get Albert?”  
“Asleep,” Davey said, looking at them dazedly, “In his cot.”  
There was a moment’s hesitation where the air seemed to gain several pounds. Then, Davey cursed, turning to run inside.  
The others were on his heels as they hurdled up the stairs, rushing onto the stage. Other gang members were sitting up in their cots, watching the four of them in sleepy confusion.  
Albert made it to Les’ section first, blood draining from his face as he took in the scene. The sheets from Les’ cot were strewn across the floor, tangled in a way that indicated a struggle. His pillows were chucked aimlessly around the room, small stains of what looked like blood dotting them.  
Davey pushed past Albert, skidding to his knees in front of one of the pillows, shoving it aside as if Les would materialize from under it.  
He let out a colorful stream of curses and stood again, “Jack!” He called madly, rushing to his own section. Jack’s bed was vacant as well, although it didn’t look like it had been slept in at all.  
They all stood still, completely at a loss of what to do- shock coursing through each of their veins.  
“Wait, the kitchen light’s on,” Race said, already speeding towards the doorway that led to it. He disappeared for a moment before they heard a curse sound from the other room.  
Race peeked his head back out, eyes wide, “I found Jack.”  
By now, the other gang members were out of their beds, murmuring to one another. A small crowd moved towards the kitchen and Albert pushed through to the front, sick fear pooling in his stomach as he took in Jack, unconscious on the kitchen counter.  
Race bit down harshly on his lip, shaking Jack vigorously to no avail. He was completely out. Race huffed out a breath, bracing himself before hoisting Jack out of his chair and lowering him to the ground. He carefully lifted his legs, resting them on the chair above them to kickstart his blood-flow again.  
“He was drugged I think,” He said distractedly, “I don’t know what to do.”  
“Move,” Davey demanded, “Finch, get the counter-shot.”  
Finch nodded once, sprinting out of the room towards the drug inventory. A tense minute later, he returned, long needle in hand. He carefully passed it to Davey, who lifted Jack’s arm, feeling around for a vein before injecting the medicine with a surprisingly steady hand.  
“That should get his blood pressure up,” Davey muttered, propping back onto his heels and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, “Give it a minute.”  
With an overcompensating gasp, Jack awoke several minutes later, dazed eyes blinking towards the ceiling.  
“Jack,” Race said immediately, “Les is gone.”  
Jack shook his head, defeat and something deeper dancing across his face, “Shit,” he said, sitting up, lowering his legs from the chair.  
He looked directly at Davey, “So’s Crutchie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand the plot kickstarted   
> feedback is always appreciated   
> tumblr: papesdontsellthemselves


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